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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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THE   HISTORY 


OP 


DAVID    CJEIEVE 


BY 

MES.    HrMPHRY    AVARD 

AUTHOR  OF  ' ROBERT  ELSMERE ' 


IN   TWO    VOLUMES 
VOL.    I 


MACMILLAX    AND    CO. 

A  X  D     L  O  N  D  O  X 
1892 

All  rif/hts  reserved 


r.i 


Copyright,  1891, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Typogbapht  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 
Pbesswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


TO 
THE  BEAR  MEMORY 

OF 

MY  MOTHER 


Childhood 


CONTENTS 

Of  Vol.  1 
BOOK    I 


PAGE 


BOOK    II 
Youth  ...    203 

r.OOK    III 
Storm  and  Stress        . 425 


?.OOT\    I 
ClIlJ.DlloolJ 


CHAPTER  I 

*  Tak  your  hat,  Louie  !  Yo're  alius  leavin  summat 
behind  yer.' 

'  David,  yo  go  for  't,'  said  the  child  addressed  to  a 
boy  by  her  side,  nodding  her  head  insolently  towards 
the  speaker,  a  tall  and  bony  woman,  who  stood  on  the 
steps  the  children  had  just  descended,  holding  out  a 
battered  hat. 

'  Yo're  a  careless  thing,  Louie,'  said  the  boy,  but  he 
went  back  and  took  the  hat. 

'  Mak  her  tie  it,'  said  the  woman,  showing  an  anti- 
quated pair  of  strings.  '  If  she  loses  it  she  needna 
coom  cryin  for  anudder.  She'd  lose  her  yead  if  it 
wor  loose.' 

Then  she  turned  and  went  back  into  the  house.  It 
was  a  smallish  house  of  grey  stone,  three  windows 
above,  two  and  a  door  below.  Dashes  of  white  on  the 
stone  gave,  as  it  were,  eyebrows  to  the  windows,  and 
over  the  door  there  Avas  a  meagre  trellised  porch,  up 
which  grew  some  now  leafless  roses  and  honeysuckles. 
To  the  left  of  the  door  a  scanty  bit  of  garden  Avas 
squeezed  in  between  the  hill,  against  which  the  house 
Avas  set  edgeways,  and  the  rest  of  the  Hat  space,  occu- 
pied by  the  uneven  farmyard,  the  cart-shed  and  stable, 
tlie  cow-houses  and  duck-pond.  This  garden  contained 
two  shabby  apple  trees,  as  jet  hardly  touched  by  the 
spring;  some  currant  and  gooseberry  bushes,  already 
fairly  green  ;  and  a  clump  ur  two  of  scattered  daffodils 


4  TIIK    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE         book  i 

and  wallflowers.  The  hedge  round  it  Avas  broken 
through  in  various  places,  and  it  had  a  casual  neg- 
lected air. 

The  children  went  their  way  through  the  yard.  In 
front  of  them  a  flock  of  some  forty  sheep  and  lambs 
pushed  along,  guarded  by  two  black  short-haired  col- 
lies. The  boy,  brandishing  a  long  stick,  opened  a 
gate  deplorably  in  want  of  mending,  and  the  sheep 
crowded  through,  keenly  looked  after  by  the  dogs,  who 
waited  meanwhile  on  their  flanks  with  heads  up,  ears 
cocked,  and  that  air  of  self-restrained  energy  which 
often  makes  a  sheep-dog  more  human  than  his  master. 
The  field  beyond  led  to  a  little  larch  plantation,  where 
a  few  primroses  showed  among  the  tufts  of  long,  rich 
grass,  and  the  drifts  of  last  year's  leaves.  Here  the 
flock  scattered  a  little,  but  David  and  the  dogs  were 
after  them  in  a  twinkling,  and  the  plantation  gate  was 
soon  closed  on  the  last  bleating  mother.  Then  there 
was  nothing  more  for  the  boy  to  do  than  to  go  up  to 
the  top  of  the  green  rising  ground  on  which  the  farm 
stood  and  see  if  the  gate  leading  to  the  moor  was 
safely  shut.  For  the  sheep  he  had  been  driving  were 
not  meant  for  the  open  moorland.  Their  feeding 
grounds  lay  in  the  stone-walled  fields  round  the  home- 
stead, and  had  they  strayed  on  to  the  mountain  beyond, 
which  was  reserved  for  a  hardier  Scotch  breed,  David 
would  have  been  answerable.  So  he  strode,  whistling, 
up  the  hill  to  have  a  look  at  that  top  gate,  while  Louie 
sauntered  down  to  the  stream  which  ran  round  the 
lower  pastures  to  wait  for  him. 

The  top  gate  was  fast,  but  David  climbed  the  wall 
and  stood  there  a  while,  hands  in  his  pockets,  legs 
apart,  whistling  and  looking. 

'  They  can  see  t'  Downfall  from  Stockport  to-day,' 
he  was  saying  to  himself ;  *  it's  coomin  ower  like  mad.' 

Some   distance  away  in  front  of  liiui,  beyond  the 


CHAI'.    I 


flllLDIIOOl) 


undulating  heather  ground  at  his  feet,  rose  a  magni- 
ficent curving  front  of  moor,  the  steep  sides  of  it 
crowned  with  bhick  edges  and  cliffs  of  grit,  the  outline 
of  the  south-western  end  sweeping  finely  up  on  the 
right  to  a  purple  peak,  the  king  of  all  the  moorland 
round.  No  such  colour  as  clothed  that  bronzed  and 
reddish  wall  of  rock,  heather,  and  bilberry  is  known 
to  Westmoreland,  hardly  to  Scotland  ;  it  seems  to  be 
the  peculiar  i)roperty  of  that  lonely  and  inaccessible 
district  which  marks  the  mountainous  centre  of  mid- 
England — the  district  of  Kinder  Scout  and  the  High 
Peak.  Before  the  boy's  ranging  eye  spread  the  whole 
western  rampart  of  the  Peak — to  the  right,  the  highest 
point,  of  Kinder  Low,  to  the  left,  '  edge  '  behind  '  edge,' 
till  the  central  rocky  mass  sank  and  faded  towards  the 
north  into  milder  forms  of  green  and  undulating  hills. 
Tn  the  very  centre  of  the  great  curve  a  white  and  surg- 
ing mass  of  water  cleft  the  mountain  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, falling  straight  over  the  edge,  here  some  two 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  roaring  downward 
along  an  almost  precipitous  bed  into  the  stream — the 
Kinder — which  swept  round  the  hill  on  which  the  boy 
was  standing,  and  througli  the  valley  behind  him.  In 
ordinary  times  the  *  Downfall,'  as  the  natives  call  it, 
only  makes  itself  visible  on  the  mountain-side  as  a 
black  ravine  of  tossed  and  tumbled  rocks.  But  there 
had  been  a  late  snowfall  on  the  high  plateau  beyond, 
followed  by  heavy  rain,  and  the  swollen  stream  was 
to-day  worthy  of  its  grand  setting  of  cliff  and  moor. 
On  such  occasions  it  becomes  a  landmark  for  all  the 
country  round,  for  the  cotton-spinning  centres  of  New 
Mills  and  Stocki)ort,  as  well  as  for  the  grey  and  scat- 
tered farms  whi(di  climb  the  long  backs  of  moorland 
lying  between  the  Peak  and  the  Cheshire  border. 

To-day,  also,  after   the    snow   and   rains   of   early 
April,  the  air  was  clear  again.     The  sun  was  shining ; 


6  TIIK    HISTORY    OF    DAVID    GRIEVE        book  i 

a  cold,  dry  wind  was  blowing ;  there  were  sounds  of 
spring  in  the  air,  and  signs  of  it  on  the  thorns  and 
larches.  Far  away  on  the  boundary  wall  of  the  farm- 
land a  cuckoo  was  sitting,  his  long  tail  swinging 
behind  him,  his  inonotonous  note  filling  the  valley ; 
and  overhead  a  couple  of  peewits  chased  each  other  in 
the  pale,  Avindy  blue. 

The  keen  air,  the  sun  after  the  rain,  sent  life  and 
exhilaration  through  the  boy's  young  limbs.  He  leapt 
from  the  wall,  and  raced  back  down  the  field,  his  dogs 
streaming  behind  him,  the  sheep,  with  their  newly 
dro])ped  lambs,  shrinking  timidly  to  either  side  as  he 
passed.  He  made  for  a  corner  in  the  wall,  vaulted  it 
on  to  the  moor,  crossed  a  rough  dam  built  in  the 
stream  for  sheep-washing  purposes,  jumped  in  and  out 
of  the  two  grey-walled  sheep-pens  beyond,  and  then 
made  leisurely  for  a  spot  in  the  brook — not  the  Down- 
fall stream,  but  the  Red  Brook,  one  of  its  westerly 
affluents — where  he  had  left  a  miniature  water-wheel 
at  work  the  day  before.  Before  him  and  around  him 
spread  the  brown  bosom  of  Kinder  Scout ;  the  culti- 
vated land  was  left  behind  ;  here  on  all  sides,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  see,  was  the  wild  home  of  heather 
and  plashing  water,  of  grouse  and  peewit,  of  cloud  and 
breeze. 

The  little  wheel,  sha2:)ed  from  a  block  of  firwood, 
was  turning  merrily  under  a  jet  of  water  carefully 
conducted  to  it  from  a  neighbouring  fall.  David  went 
down  on  hands  and  knees  to  examine  it.  He  made 
some  little  alteration  in  the  primitive  machinery  of 
it,  his  fingers  touching  it  lightly  and  iieatly,  and  then, 
delighted  with  the  success  of  it,  he  called  Louie  to 
come  and  look. 

Louie  was  sitting  a  few  yards  further  up  the 
stream,  crooning  to  herself  as  she  swung  to  and  fro, 
and  snatching  every  now  and  then  at  some  tufts  of 


CHAP.  J  CH1LJJ11(J()J>  7 

I)rini roses  growing  near  lier,  which  she  wrenched 
away  witli  a  hasty,  wasteful  hand,  careless,  appar- 
ently, whether  they  reached  her  la})  or  merely  strewed 
the  turf  about  her  with  their  torn  blossoms.  When 
David  called  her  she  gathered  up  the  flowers  anyhow 
ill  her  aiiron,  and  dawdled  towards  him,  leaving  a  trail 
of  them  behind  her.  As  she  reached  him,  however, 
she  was  struck  by  a  book  sticking  out  of  his  pocket, 
and,  stooping  over  him,  with  a  sudden  hawk-like  ges- 
ture, as  he  sprawled  head  downwards,  she  tried  to 
get  hold  of  it. 

JUit  he  felt  her  movement.  '  Let  goo  ! '  he  said 
imperiously,  and,  throwing  himself  round,  while  one 
foot  slipped  into  the  water,  he  caught  her  hand, 
with  its  thin  predatory  fingers,  and  pulled  the  book 
away. 

'  Yo  just  leave  my  books  alone,  Louie.  Yo  do  "em 
a  mischeef  whaniver  yo  can — an  I'll  not  have  it.' 

He  turned  his  handsome,  regular  face,  crimsoned 
by  his  position  and  si)lashed  by  the  water,  towards 
her  with  an  indignant  air.  She  laughed,  and  sat  her- 
self down  again  on  the  grass,  looking  a  very  imp  of 
provocation, 

'  They're  stupid,'  she  said,  shortly.  '  They  mak  yo 
a  stupid  gonner  ony  ways.' 

'  Oh  !  do  they  ? '  he  retorted,  angrily.  '  Bit  I'll  be 
even  wi  yo.  I'll  tell  yo  noa  moor  stories  out  of  'em, 
not  if  yo  ast  iver  so.' 

The  girl's  mouth  curled  contemptuously,  and  she 
began  to  gather  her  [)rimroses  into  a  bunch  with  an 
air  of  the  utmost  serenity.  She  was  a  thin,  agile, 
lightly  made  creature,  apparently  about  eleven.  Her 
piercing  black  eyes,  when  they  lifted,  seemed  to  over- 
weight the  face,  whereof  the  other  features  were  at 
present  small  and  pinched.  The  mouth  had  a  trick  of 
remaining  slightly  open,  showing  a  line  of  small  pearly 


8  THE   HISTORY   OF    DAVID    GRIEVE        hook  i 

teeth ;  the  chin  was  a  little  sharp  and  shrewish.  As 
for  the  hair,  it  promised  to  be  splendid ;  at  present  it 
was  an  unkempt,  tangled  mass,  which  Hannah  Grieve, 
tlie  children's  aunt,  for  her  own  credit's  sake  at  chapel, 
or  in  the  public  street,  made  occasional  violent  attempts 
to  reduce  to  order — to  very  little  purpose,  so  strong  and 
stubborn  was  the  curl  of  it.  The  whole  figure  was  out 
of  keeping  with  the  English  moorside,  with  the  sheep, 
and  the  primroses. 

But  so  indeed  was  that  of  the  boy,  whose  dark 
colouring  was  more  vivacious  and  pronounced  than 
his  sister's,  because  the  red  of  his  cheek  and  lip  was 
deeper,  while  his  features,  though  larger  than  hers, 
were  more  finely  regular,  and  his  eyes  had  the  same 
piercing  blackness,  the  same  all-examining  keenness, 
as  hers.  The  yellowish  tones  of  his  worn  fustian  suit 
and  a  red  Tam-o'-Shanter  cap  completed  the  general 
effect  of  brilliancy  and,  as  it  were,  foreignness. 

Having  finished  his  inspection  of  his  water-mill,  he 
scrambled  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  stream  so  as 
to  be  well  out  of  his  sister's  way,  and,  taking  out  the 
volume  which  was  stretching  his  pocket,  he  began  to 
read  it.  It  was  a  brown  calf-bound  book,  much  worn, 
and  on  its  title-page  it  bore  the  title  of  '  The  Wars  of 
Jerusalem,'  of  Flavins  Josephus,  translated  by  S.  Cal- 
met,  and  a  date  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  To  this  antique  fare  the  boy  settled 
himself  down.  The  two  collies  lay  couched  beside 
him ;  a  stone-chat  perched  on  one  or  other  of  the  great 
blocks  which  lay  scattered  over  the  heath  gave  out  his 
clinking  note;  while  every  now  and  then  the  loud 
peevish  cluck  of  the  grouse  came  from  the  distant 
sides  of  the  Scout. 

Titus  was  now  making  his  final  assault  on  the 
Temple.  The  Zealots  were  gathered  in  the  innermost 
court,  frantically  beseeching  Heaven  for  a  sign ;  the 


CHAT.    I 


CHILDHOOD 


walls,  the  outer  approaches  of  tlie  Sanctuary  were 
choked  with  the  dying  and  the  dead.  David  sat  ab- 
sorbed, elbows  on  knees,  his  face  framed  in  his  hands. 
Suddenly  the  descent  of  something  cold  and  clammy 
on  his  bent  neck  roused  him  with  a  most  unpleasant 
shock. 

Quick  as  lightning  he  faced  round,  snatching  at  his 
assailant ;  but  Louie  was  off,  scudding  among  the  bil- 
berry hillocks  with  peals  of  laughter,  while  the  slimy 
moss  she  had  just  gathered  from  the  edges  of  the 
brook  sent  cold  creeping  streams  into  the  recesses  of 
David's  neck  and  shoulders,  lie  shook  himself  free 
of  the  mess  as  best  he  could,  and  rushed  after  her. 
For  a  long  time  he  chased  her  in  vain,  then  her  foot 
tripped,  and  he  came  up  with  her  just  as  she  rolled 
into  the  heather,  gathered  up  like  a  hedgehog  against 
attack,  her  old  hat  held  down  over  her  ears  and  face. 
David  fell  upon  her  and  chastised  her ;  but  his  fisti- 
cuffs probably  looked  more  formidable  than  they  felt, 
for  Louie  laughed  i)rovokingly  all  the  time,  and  when 
he  stopped  out  of  breath  she  said  exultantly,  as  she 
sprang  up,  holding  her  skirts  round  her  ready  for  an- 
other flight,  '  It's  greened  aw  yur  neck  and  yur  collar 
— luvely !  Doan't  yo  be  nassty  for  nothink  next 
time  I ' 

And  off  she  ran. 

'  If  yo  meddle  wi  me  ony  moor,'  he  shouted  after 
her  fiercely,  'yo  see  what  I'll  do  ! ' 

But  in  reality  the  male  was  helpless,  as  usual.  lie 
went  ruefully  down  to  the  brook,  and  loosening  his 
shirt  and  coat  tried  to  clean  his  neck  and  hair.  Then, 
extremely  sticky  and  uncomfortable,  he  Avent  back  to 
his  seat  and  his  book,  his  wrathful  eyes  taking  careful 
note  meanwhile  of  Louie's  whereabouts.  And  thence- 
forward he  read,  as  it  were,  on  guard,  looking  up  every 
other  minute. 


10  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       hook   i 

Louie  established  herself  some  way  up  tlie  further 
slope,  in  a  steep  stony  nook,  under  two  black  boulders, 
which  protected  her  rear  in  case  of  reprisals  from 
David.  Time  passed  away.  David,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  brook,  revelling  in  the  joys  of  battle,  and  all 
the  more  alive  to  them  perhaps  because  of  the  watch 
kept  on  Louie  by  one  section  of  his  brain,  was  con- 
scious of  no  length  in  the  minutes.  But  Louie's  mood 
gradually  became  one  of  extreme  flatness.  All  her 
resources  Avere  for  the  moment  at  an  end.  She  could 
til  ink  of  no  fresh  torment  for  David  ;  besides,  she  knew 
that  she  w^as  observed.  She  had  destroyed  all  the 
scanty  store  of  primroses  along  the  brook;  gathered 
rushes,  begun  to  plait  them,  and  thrown  them  away  ; 
she  had  found  a  grouse's  nest  among  the  dead  fern, 
and,  contrary  to  the  most  solemn  injunctions  of  uncle 
and  keeper,  enforced  by  the  direst  threats,  had  pur- 
loined and  broken  an  egg ;  and  still  dinner-time  delayed. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  cold  blighting  wind,  which  soon  made 
her  look  blue  and  pinched,  tamed  her  insensibly.  At 
any  rate,  she  got  up  after  about  an  hour,  and  coolly 
walked  across  to  David. 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  quick  frown.  But  she 
sat  down,  and,  clasping  her  hands  round  her  knees, 
while  the  primroses  she  had  stuck  in  her  hat  dangled 
over  her  defiant  eyes,  she  looked  at  him  with  a  grin- 
ning composure. 

'  Yo  can  read  out  if  yo  want  to,'  she  remarked. 

'Yo  doan't  deserve  nowt,  an  I  shan't,'  said  David, 
shortly. 

'Then  I'll  tell  Aunt  Hannah  about  how  yo  let  t' 
lambs  stray  lasst  evenin,  and  about  yor  readin  at  neet.' 

'  Yo  may  tell  her  aw  t'  tally  diddles  yo  can  think 
on,'  was  the  unpromising  reply. 

Louie  threw  all  the  scorn  possible  into  her  forced 
smile,  and  then,  dropping  full-length  into  the  heather, 


f:nAi'.   I  CHILDHOOD  11 

she  began  to  sing  at  the  top  of  a  shrill,  unpleasing 
voice,  mainly,  of  course,  for  the  sake  of  harrying  any- 
one in  her  neighbourhood  who  might  wish  to  read. 

*  Stop  that  squealin  ! '  David  commanded,  peremp- 
torily.    Whereupon  Louie  sang  louder  than  before. 

David  looked  round  in  a  fury,  but  his  fury  was, 
apparently,  instantly  damped  by  the  inward  conviction, 
l)()ru  of  long  experience,  that  he  could  do  nothing  to 
help  himself.  He  sprang  up,  and  thrust  his  book 
into  his  pocket. 

'Nobory  nil  mak  owt  o'  yo  till  yo  get  a  bastin 
twice  a  day,  wi  an  odd  lick  extra  for  Sundays,'  he 
remarked  to  her  with  grim  emphasis  when  he  had 
reached  what  seemed  to  him  a  safe  distance.  Then 
he  turned  and  strode  up  the  face  of  the  hill,  the  dogs 
at  his  heels.  Louie  turned  on  her  elbow,  and  threw 
such  small  stones  as  she  could  discover  among  the 
heather  after  him,  but  they  fell  harmlessly  about 
him,  and  did  not  answer  their  purpose  of  provoking 
him  to  turn  round  again. 

She  observed  that  he  was  going  up  to  the  old 
Smithy  on  the  side  of  Kinder  Low,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes she  got  up  and  sauntered  lazily  after  him. 

*  T'  owd  smithy '  had  been  the  enchanted  ground  of 
David's  childhood.  It  was  a  ruined  building  standing 
deep  in  heather,  half-way  up  the  mountain-side,  and 
ringed  by  scattered  blocks  and  tabular  slabs  of  grit. 
Here  in  times  far  remote — beyond  the  memory  of  even 
the  oldest  inhabitant — the  millstones  of  the  district, 
which  gave  their  name  to  the  •'  millstone  grit '  forma- 
tion of  the  Peak,  weie  fashioned.  High  up  on  the 
dark  moorside  stood  what  remained  of  the  primitive 
workshop.  The  fire-marked  stones  of  the  hearth  were 
l)lainly  visible ;  deep  in  the  heather  near  lay  the 
broken  jambs  of  the  window ;  a  stone  doorway  with 
its  lintel  was  still  standing ;  and  on  the  slope  beneath 


12  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

it,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  now  from  the  great 
primaeval  blocks  out  of  which  they  had  sprung  and  to 
which  they  were  fast  returning,  reposed  two  or  three 
huge  millstones.  Perhaps  they  bordered  some  an- 
cient track,  climbed  by  the  millers  of  the  past  when 
they  came  to.  this  remote  spot  to  giv-^e  their  orders ; 
but,  if  so,  the  track  had  long  since  sunk  out  of  sight 
in  the  heather,  and  no  visible  link  remained  to  con- 
nect the  history  of  this  high  and  lonely  place  with 
that  of  those  teeming  valleys  hidden  to  west  and 
north  among  the  moors,  the  dwellers  wherein  must 
once  have  known  it  well.  From  the  old  threshold  the 
eye  commanded  a  wilderness  of  moors,  rising  wave- 
like one  after  another,  from  the  green  swell  just 
below  whereon  stood  Reuben  Grieve's  farm,  to  the 
far-distant  Alderley  Edge.  In  the  hollows  between, 
dim  tall  chimneys  veiled  in  mist  and  smoke  showed 
the  places  of  the  cotton  towns — of  Haytield,  Xew 
Mills,  Staley bridge,  Stockport ;  while  in  the  far  north- 
west, any  gazer  to  whom  the  country-side  spoke  famil- 
iarly, might,  in  any  ordinary  clearness  of  weather,  look 
for  and  find  the  eternal  smoke-cloud  of  Manchester. 

So  the  deserted  smithy  stood  as  it  were  spectator 
for  ever  of  that  younger,  busier  England  which  wanted 
it  no  more.  Human  life  notwithstanding  had  left 
on  it  some  very  recent  traces.  On  the  lintel  of  the 
ruined  door  two  names  were  scratched  deep  into  the 
whitish  under-grain  of  the  black  weather-beaten  grit. 
The  upper  one  ran:  'David  Suveret  Grieve,  Sept.  15, 
1863 ; '  the  lower,  '  Louise  Stephanie  Grieve,  Sept.  15, 
1863.'  They  were  written  in  bold  round-hand,  and 
could  be  read  at  a  considerable  distance.  During  the 
nine  months  they  had  been  there,  many  a  rustic 
passer-by  had  been  stojjped  by  them,  especially  by 
the  oddity  of  the  name  Suveret,  which  tormented  the 
Derbyshire  mouth. 


CHAP.  I  C'lITLDIK  Kil)  13 

In  a  ronier  of  the  walls  stood  something  more  puz- 
zling still — a  large  iron  pan,  filled  to  the  brim  with 
water,  and  firmly  bedded  on  a  foundation  of  earth  and 
stones.  So  still  in  general  was  the  shining  sheltered 
round,  that  the  branches  of  the  mountain  ash  which 
leant  against  the  crumbling  wall,  the  tufts  of  hard 
fern  growing  among  the  stones,  the  clouds  which 
sailed  overhead,  were  all  delicately  mirrored  in  it. 
That  pan  was  David  Grieve's  dearest  possession,  and 
those  reflections,  so  magical,  and  so  alive,  had  con- 
trived for  him  many  a  half-hour  of  almost  breathless 
pleasure.  He  had  carried  it  off  from  the  refuse-yard 
of  a  foundry  in  the  valley,  where  he  had  a  friend  in 
one  of  the  apprentices.  The  farm  donkey  and  him- 
self had  dragged  it  thither  on  a  certain  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day,  when  Uncle  Reuben  had  been  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain  at  a  shepherds'  meeting  in 
the  Woodlands,  while  Aunt  Hannah  was  safely  up  to 
her  elbows  in  the  washtub.  Boy's  back  and  donkey's 
back  had  nearly  broken  under  the  task,  but  there  the 
pan  stood  at  last,  the  delight  of  David's  heart.  In  a 
crevice  of  the  wall  beside  it,  hidden  jealously  from 
the  passer-by,  lay  the  other  half  of  that  perpetual 
entertainment  it  provided — a  store  of  tiny  boats  fash- 
ioned by  David,  and  another  friend,  the  lame  minister 
of  the  '  Christian  Brethren '  congregation  at  Clough 
End,  the  small  factory  town  just  below  Kinder,  who 
was  a  sea-captain's  son,  and  with  a  knife  and  a  bit  of 
deal  could  fashion  you  any  craft  you  pleased.  These 
boats  David  only  brought  out  on  rare  occasions,  very 
seldom  admitting  Louie  to  the  show.  But  when  he 
pleased  they  became  fleets,  and  sailed  for  new  conti- 
nents. Here  were  the  ships  of  Captain  Cook,  there 
the  ships  of  Columbus.  On  one  side  of  the  pan  lay 
the  Spanish  main,  on  the  other  the  islands  of  the 
South  Seas.     A  (H-rtain  tattered  copy  of  the  ''  Royal 


14  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

Magazine/  with  pictures,  which  hxy  in  Uncle  Reuben's 
Clipboard  at  home,  provided  all  that  for  David  was 
to  be  known  of  these  names  and  places.  But  fancy 
played  pilot  and  led  the  way  ;  she  conjured  up  storms 
and  islands  and  adventures  ;  and  as  he  hung  over  his 
pan  high  on  the  Derbyshire  moor,  the  boy,  like  Sidney 
of  old,  '  sailed  the  seas  where  there  was  never  sand ' 
— the  vast  and  viewless  oceans  of  romance. 


CHAPTER   II 

Once  safe  in  the  Smithy,  David  recovered  his  temper. 
If  Louie  followed  him,  which  was  probable,  he  would 
know  better  how  to  deal  with  her  here,  with  a  wall  at 
his  back  and  a  definite  area  to  defend,  than  he  did  in 
the  treacherous  openness  of  the  heath.  However, 
just  as  he  was  settling  himself  down,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  between  the  pan  and  the  wall,  he  caught  sight 
of  something  through  one  of  the  gaps  of  the  old  ruin 
which  made -him  fling  down  his  book  and  run  to  the 
doorway.  There,  putting  his  fingers  to  his  mouth,  he 
blew  a  shrill  whistle  along  the  side  of  the  Scout.  A 
bent  figure  on  a  distant  path  stopped  at  the  sound. 
It  was  an  old  man,  with  a  plaid  hanging  from  his 
shoulders.  He  raised  the  stick  he  held,  and  shook  it 
in  recognition  of  David's  signal.  Then  resuming  his 
bowed  walk,  he  came  slowly  on,  followed  by  an  old 
hound,  whose  gait  seemed  as  feeble  as  his  master's. 

David  leant  against  the  doorway  waiting.  Louie, 
meanwhile,  was  lounging  in  the  heather  just  below 
him,  having  very  soon  caught  him  up. 

'  What  d'  yo  want  'im  for  ? '  she  asked  contemptu- 
ously, as  the  new-comer  approached:  'he'd  owt  to  be 
in  th'  sylum.  Aunt  Hannah  says  he's  gone  that  silly, 
he  owt  to  be  took  up.' 


ciiAf.  II  rillLDIIooD  15 

'  Well,  he  woan't  be,  then,'  retorted  David.  '  Theer's 
nobory  about  as  all  lay  a  finger  on  'im.  He  doan't  do 
her  no  harm,  nor  yo  noatlier.  Women  foak  and  gells 
alius  want  to  be  wooryin  soomtliin.' 

'Aunt  Hannah  says  he  lost  his  wits  wi  fuddlin,' 
repeated  Louie  shrilly,  striking  straighter  still  for 
what  she  knew  to  be  one  of  David's  tenderost  points — 
his  friendship  for  'owd  'Lias  Dawson,'  the  queer 
dreamer,  who,  fifteen  years  before,  had  been  the 
schoolmaster  of  Frimley  Moor  End,  and  in  local 
esteem  '  t'  cliverest  mon  abeawt  t'  Peak.' 

David  with  difficulty  controlled  a  hot  inclination  to 
fall  upon  his  sister  once  more.  Instead,  however,  he 
affected  not  to  hear  her,  and  shouted  a  loud  'Good 
niornin '  to  the  old  man,  who  was  toiling  up  the  knoll 
on  which  the  smithy  stood. 

'Lias  responded  feebly,  panting  hard  the  while. 
He  sank  down  on  a  stone  outside  the  smithy,  and  for 
a  while  had  neither  breath  nor  voice.  Then  he  began 
to  look  about  him ;  his  heaving  chest  subsided,  and 
there  was  a  rekindling  of  the  strange  blue  eyes.  He 
wore  a  high  white  stock  and  ueckcloth ;  his  plaid  hung 
round  his  emaciated  shoulders  with  a  certain  antique 
dignity  ;  his  rusty  wideawake  covered  hair  still  abun- 
dant and  even  curly,  but  snow-white ;  the  face,  with 
its  white  eyebrows,  was  long,  thin,  and  full  of  an 
ascetic  delicacy. 

'  Wal,  Davy,  my  lad,'  the  old  man  said  at  last,  with 
a  sort  of  pompous  mildness ;  '  I  winna  blame  yo  for 't, 
but  yo  interrupted  me  sadly  wi  yur  whistlin.  I  ha 
been  occupied  this  day  wi  business  o'  grciat  import- 
ance. His  Majesty  King  Charles  has  been  wi  me 
since  seven  o'clock  this  raornin.  And  for  th'  fust 
time  I  ha  been  gettiu  reet  to  th'  bottoyn  o'  things  wi 
him.  I  ha  been  probin  him,  Davy — probin  him.  He 
couldno  riddle  through  wi  loes ;  I  kept  him  to  't,  as 


16  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

yo  mun  keep  a  horse  to  a  jump — straight  an  tight.  I 
had  it  aw  out  about  Strafford,  an  t'  Five  Members,  an 
thoose  dirty  dealins  wi  th'  Irish  devils  !  Yo  should 
ha  yerd  it,  Davy — yo  should,  I'll  uphowd  yo  ! ' 

And  placing  his  stick  between  his  knees,  the  old 
man  leant  his  hands  upon  it,  with  a  meditative  and 
judicial  air.  The  boy  stood  looking  down  at  him,  a 
broad  smile  lighting  up  the  dark  and  vivid  face.  Old 
'Lias  supplied  him  with  a  perpetual  '  spectacle  '  which 
never  palled. 

'Coe  him  back,  'Lias,  he's  soomwheer  about.  Yo 
need  nobbut  coe  him,  an  he'll  coom.' 

'Lias  looked  fatuously  pleased.  He  lifted  his  head 
and  affected  to  scan  the  path  along  which  he  had  just 
travelled. 

'  Aye,  I  daur  say  he's  not  far. — Yor  Majesty ! ' 

And  'Lias  laid  his  head  on  one  side  and  listened. 
In  a  few  seconds  a  cunning  smile  stole  over  his  lips. 

'  Wal,  Davy,  yo're  in  luck.  He's  noan  so  onwillin, 
we'st  ha  him  here  in  a  twinklin.  Yo  may  coe  him 
mony  things,  but  yo  conno  coe  him  proud.  ISToa,  as 
I've  fund  him,  Charles  Stuart  has  no  soart  o'  pride 
about  him.  Aye,  theer  yo  are !  Sir,  your  Majesty's 
obleeged  an  humble  servant ! ' 

And,  raising  his  hand  to  his  hat,  the  old  man  took 
it  off  and  swept  it  round  with  a  courtly  deliberation. 
Then  replacing  it,  he  sat  with  his  face  raised,  as 
though  to  one  standing  near,  his  whole  attitude  full  of 
a  careful  and  pomjoous  dignity. 

'Kow  then,  yor  Majesty,'  said  'Lias  grimly,  'I'st  ha 
to  put  that  question  to  yo,  yance  moor,  yo  wor  noan 
so  well  pleased  Avi  this  mornin.  But  yo  shouldno  be 
soa  tender,  mon !  Th'  truth  can  do  yo  noa  harm, 
wheer  yo  are,  an  I'm  nobbut  askin  for  informashuri' s 
sake.  Soa  out  Avi  it ;  I'st  not  use  it  agen  yo.  Tliat 
— loee — hit — o' — damned — -paper, — man,  what  sent  poor 


CHAP.  II  fHILDHOOD  17 

Strafford  to  liis  eeiul — yo  mind  it  ? — aye,  'at  yo  do ! 
Well,  now ' — and  the  old  man's  tone  grew  gently 
seductive — 'expUiin  ynrsel.  We'n  had  their  tale,'  and 
he  pointed  away  to  some  imaginary  accusers.  'But 
yo  man  trust  an  Englishman's  sense  o'  fair  play.  Say 
your  say.     We'  st  gie  yo  a  varra  patient  hearin.' 

And  with  chin  thrown  up,  and  his  hall-blurred  eyes 
blinking  under  their  white  lashes,  'Lias  waited  with 
a  bland  imperativeness  for  the  answer. 

•Eh?'  said  'Lias  at  last,  frowning  and  hollowing 
his  hand  to  his  ear. 

He  listened  another  few  seconds,  then  he  dropped 
his  hand  sharply. 

•  What's  'at  yo're  sayin  ?  '  he  asked  hastily  ;  '  'at 
yo  couldno  help  it,  not  ivhativer — that  i'  truth  yo  had 
nothin  to  do  wi  't,  uo  moor  than  mysel — that  yo  wor 
foix'it  to  it — willy-nilly — by  them  devils  o'  Parliament 
foak — by  ]\lr.  Pym  and  his  loike,  Avi  whom,  if  God- 
amighty  ha'  not  reckoned  since,  theer's  no  moor  justice 
i'  His  Kingdom  than  yo  found  i'  yours  ?  ' 

The  words  came  out  with  a  rush,  tumbling  over  one 
another  till  they  suddenly  broke  off  in  a  loud  key  of 
indignant  scorn.  Then  'Lias. fell  silent  a  moment,  and 
slowly  shook  his  head  over  the  inveterate  shuffling  of 
the  House  of  Stuart. 

'  'Twinna  do,  man — 'twinna  do,'  he  said  at  last,  with 
an  air  of  fine  reproof.  *  He  wor  j^our  friend,  wor  that 
poor  sinner  Strafford — your  awn  familiar  friend,  as  t' 
Psalm  says.  I'm  not  takin  up  a  brief  for  him,  t' 
Lord  knoAVs !  He  wor  but  meetin  his  deserts,  to  my 
thinkin,  when  his  yed  went  loupin.  But  yo  put  a 
black  nuirk  agen  7jore  name  when  yo  signed  that  bit 
paper  for  your  awn  skin's  sake.  Xaw,  naw,  man,  3-0 
should  ha  lost  your  awn  yetl  a  bit  sooner  fust.  Eh, 
it  wor  base — it  wor  cooardly  I ' 

'Lias's  voice  dropped,  and  he  fell  muttering  to  him- 

VOL.   I  c 


18  THE   HISTORY   OP  DAVID   GEIEVE       book  i 

self  indistinctly.  David,  bending  over  him,  could 
not  make  out  whether  it  was  Charles  or  his  interlo- 
cutor speaking,  and  began  to  be  afraid  that  the  old 
man's  performance  was  over  before  it  had  well  begun. 
But  on  the  contrary,  'Lias  emerged  with  fresh  energy 
from  the  gulf  of  inarticulate  argument  in  which  his 
poor  wits  seemed  to  have  lost  themselves  awhile. 

'But  I'm  no  blamin  yo  awthegither,'  he  cried, 
raising  himself,  with  a  protesting  wave  of  the  hand. 
'Theer's  naw  mak  o'  mischief  i'  this  world,  but  t' 
women  are  at  t'  bottom  o't.  Whar's  that  proud  foo 
of  a  wife  o'  yourn  ?  Send  her  here,  man  ;  send  her 
here  !  'Lias  Dawson  ull  mak  her  hear  reason  !  Now, 
Davy  ! ' 

And  the  old  man  drew  the  lad  to  him  with  one 
hand,  wdiile  he  raised  a  finger  softly  with  the  other, 

'Just  study  her,  Davy,  my  lad,'  he  said  in  an 
undertone,  which  swelled  louder  as  his  excitement 
grew,  'theer  she  stan's,  by  t'  side  o'  t'  King.  She's  a 
gay  good-lookin  female,  that  I'll  confess  to,  but  study 
her ;  look  at  her  curls,  Davy,  an  her  paint,  an  her 
nakedness.  For  shame,  madam !  Goo  hide  that 
neck  o'  yourn,  goo  hide  it,  I  say  !  An  her  faldaddles, 
an  her  jewels,  an  her  ribbons.  Is  that  a  woman — a 
French  hizzy  like  that — to  get  a  King  out  o'  trooble, 
wha's  awready  lost  aw  t'  wits  he  wor  born  wi  ? ' 

And  with  sparkling  eyes  and  outstretched  arm 
'Lias  pointed  sternly  into  vacancy.  Thrilled  with 
involuntary  awe  the  boy  and  girl  looked  round  them. 
For,  in  spite  of  herself,  Louie  had  come  closer,  little 
by  little,  and  was  now  sitting  cross-legged  in  front  of 
'Lias.     Then  Louie's  shrill  voice  broke  in — 

'  Tell  us  what  she's  got  on  ! '  And  the  girl  leant 
eagerly  forward,  her  magnificent  eyes  kindling  into 
interest. 

'  What  she's  got  on,  my  lassie  ?      Eh,  but  I'm  feart 


(•iiAi>.  II  ('IIILDIK)OD  19 

your  yead,  too,  is  fu'  o'  gauds  ! — Wal,  it's  but  nateral 
to  femal(!S.  She's  aw  in  white  satin,  my  lassie, — an 
in  her  brown  liair  theer's  pearls,  an  a  blue  ribbon  just 
howdin  down  t'  little  luve-locks  on  her  forehead — an 
on  her  saft  neck  theer's  pearls  again — not  soa  white, 
by  a  thoosand  mile,  as  her  white  skin — an  t'  lace  fa's 
ower  her  proud  shoothers,  an  down  her  luvely  arms — 
an  she  looks  at  me  wi  her  angry  eyes — Eh,  but  she's  a 
queen ! '  cried  'Lias,  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  admira- 
tion. '  She  hath  been  a  persecutor  o'  th'  saints — a 
varra  Jeezebel — the  Lord  hath  put  her  to  shame — but 
she's  moor  sperrit — moor  o'  t'  blood  o'  kingship  i'  her 
little  tiuger,  nor  Charles  tlieer  in  aw  his  body  ! ' 

And  by  a  strange  and  crazy  reversal  of  feeling,  the 
old  man  sat  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  enamoured  of  his 
own  creation,  looking  into  thin  air.  As  for  Louie, 
during  the  description  of  the  Queen's  dress  she  had 
drunk  in  every  word  with  a  greedy  attention,  her 
changing  eyes  fixed  on  the  speaker's  face.  When  he 
stopped,  however,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

'  It's  aw  lees  ! '  she  said  scornfully. 

'  Howd  your  tongue,  Louie  ! '  cried  David,  angrily. 

But  'Lias  took  no  notice.  He  was  talking  again 
very  fast,  but  incoherently.  Hampden,  Pym,  Fairfax, 
Falkland — the  great  names  clattered  past  every  now 
and  then,  like  horsemen,  through  a  maze  of  words, 
but  with  no  perceptible  order  or  purpose.  The 
phrases  concerning  them  came  to  nothing ;  and  though 
there  were  apparently  many  voices  speaking,  nothing 
intelligible  could  be  made  out. 

When  next  the  mists  cleared  a  little  from  the  old 
visionary's  brain,  David  gathered  that  Cromwell  was 
close  by,  defending  himself  with  ditHculty,  apparently, 
like  Charles,  against  'Lias's  assaults.  In  his  youth 
and  middle  age — until,  in  fact,  an  event  of  some 
})athos  and  mystery  had  broken  his  life  across,  and 


20  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID    GRIEVE       book  i 

cut  liim  off  from  his  profession — 'Lias  liad   been  a 
zealous  teacher  and  a  voracious  reader ;  and  through 
the  dreams  of  fifteen  years  the  didactic  faculty  had 
persisted  and  grown  amazingly.     He  played  school- 
master now  to  all  the  heroes  of  history.     Whether 
it   were   Elizabeth   wrangling   with  Mary  Stuart,  or 
Cromwell  marshalling  his  Ironsides,  or  Buckingham 
falling  under  the  assassin's  dagger  at  'Lias's  feet,  or 
Xapoleon  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the  deck  of 
the   'Belleroplion,'  'Lias    rated   them    everyone.     He 
was  lord  of  a  shadow  world,  wherein  he  walked  with 
kings  and  queens,  warriors  and  poets,  putting  them 
one  and  all  superbly  to  rights.     Yet  so  subtle  were 
the  old  man's  wits,  and  so  bright  his  fancy,  even  in 
derangement,  that  he  preserved  through  it  all  a  con- 
siderable measure  of  dramatic  fitness.     He  gave  his 
puppets  a  certain  freedom  ;    he  let  them  state  their 
case  ;  and  threw  almost  as  much  ingenuity  into  the 
pleading  of  it  as  into  the  refuting   of   it.     Of   late, 
since  he  had  made  friends  with  Davy  Grieve,  he  had 
contracted  a  curious  habit  of  weaving  the  boy  into 
his  visions. 

'  Davy,  what's  your  opinion  o'  that  ?  '  or, '  Davy,  my 
lad,  did  yo  iver  hear  sich  clit-clat  i'  your  life  ? '  or 
again,  'Davy,  yo'll  not  be  misled,  surely,  by  sich  a 
piece  o'  speshul-pleadin  as  that  ? ' 

So  the  appeals  would  run,  and  the  boy,  at  first  be- 
wildered, and  even  irritated  by  them,  as  by  something 
which  threw  hindrances  in  the  way  of  the  only 
dramatic  entertainment  the  High  Peak  was  likely  to 
afford  him,  had  learnt  at  last  to  join  in  them  with 
relish.  Many  meetings  with  'Lias  on  the  moorside, 
which  tlie  old  seer  made  alive  for  both  of  them — the 
plundering  of  'Lias's  books,  whence  he  had  drawn  the 
brown  '  Josephus'  in  his  pocket — these  had  done  more 
than   anything   else    to   stock   the   boy's    head    with 


cii.vr.  II 


Cllll.J)ll«»<iD  21 


its  present  strange  jumble  of  knowledge  and  ideas. 
Knowledge,  indeed,  it  scarcely  was,  but  rather  the 
materials  lor  a  certain  kind  of  excitement. 

'  Wal,  Davy,  did  yo  hear  that  ? '  said  'Lias,  pres- 
ently, looking  round  on  the  boy  with  a  doubtful  coun- 
teiiance,  after  Cromwell  had  given  an  unctuous  and 
highly  Biblical  account  of  the  slaughter  at  Drogheda 
and  its  reasons. 

'How  mony  did  he  say  he  killed  at  that  place?' 
asked  the  boy  sharply. 

'Thoosands,'  sai<l  Dawson,  solemnly.  'Theer  was 
naw  mercy  asked  nor  gi"en.  And  those  wha  escaped 
kno(;kin  on  t'  yead,  were  aw  sold  as  slaves— every 
mon  jock  o'  them  ! ' 

A  strong  light  of  anger  showed  itself  in  David's 
face. 

'  Then  he  wor  a  cantin  murderer  1  Yo  mun  tell 
him  so  !     If  I'd  my  way,  he'd  hang  for  't ! ' 

>  Eh,  laddie,  they  were  nowt  but  rebels  and  Papists,' 
said  the  old  man,  complacently. 

'Don't  yo  becall  Papists!'  cried  David,  fiercely, 
facing  round  upon  him.     '  My  mither  wor  a  Papist.' 

A  curious  change  of  expression  appeared  on  'Lias's 
face.  He  put  his  hand  behind  his  ear  that  he  might 
hear  better,  turned  a  pair  of  cunning  eyes  on  David, 
while  his  lips  pressed  themselves  together. 

'  Your  mither  wor  a  Papist  ?  an  your  feyther  wor 
Sandy  Grieve.  Ay,  ay — I've  yeerd  tell  strange  things 
o'  Sandy  Grieve's  wife,'  he  said  slowly. 

Suddenly  Louie,  who  had  been  lying  full  length  on 
her  back  in  the  sun,  with  her  hat  over  her  face,  ap- 
parently asleep,  sat  bolt  upright. 

'Tell  us  what  about  her,'  she  said  imperiously. 

'Xoa — noa,'  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head, 
while  a  sort  of  film  seemed  to  gather  over  the  eyes, 
and  the  face  and  features  relaxed — fell,  as  it  were, 


22  THK    IIISTOHV   OF    DAVID   GRIEVE       hook  i 

into  their  natural  expression  of  weak  senility,  which 
so  long  as  he  was  under  the  stress  of  his  favourite 
illusions  was  hardly  apparent.  'But  it's  true — it's 
varratrue — I've  yeerdtell  strange  things  about  Sandy 
Grieve's  wife.' 

And  still  aimlessly  shaking  his  head,  he  sat  staring 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  ravine,  the  lower  jaw  drop- 
ping a  little. 

'He  knows  nowt  about  it,'  said  David,  roughly,  the 
light  of  a  sombre,  half-reluctant  curiosity,  which  had 
arisen  in  his  look,  dying  down. 

He  threAV  himself  on  the  grass  by  the  dogs,  and 
began  teasing  and  playing  with  them.  Meanwhile 
Louie  sat  studying  'Lias  with  a  frowning  hostility, 
making  faces  at  him  now  and  then  by  way  of  amuse- 
ment. To  disappoint  the  impetuous  will  embodied  in 
that  small  frame  was  to  commit  an  offence  of  the  first 
order. 

But  one  might  as  well  make  faces  at  a  stone  post  as 
at  old  'Lias  when  his  wandering  fit  was  on  him. 
When  the  entertainment  palled,  Louie  got  up  with  a 
yawn,  meaning  to  lounge  back  to  the  farm  and  investi- 
gate the  nearness  of  dinner.  But,  as  she  turned,  some- 
thing caught  her  attention.  It  was  the  gleam  of  a 
pool,  far  away  beyond  the  Downfall,  on  a  projecting 
spur  of  the  moor. 

'  What  d'  yo  coe  that  bit  watter  ?  '  she  asked  David, 
suddenly  pointing  to  it. 

David  rolled  himself  round  on  his  face,  and  took  a 
look  at  the  l)luish  patch  on  the  heather. 

'  It  hasna  got  naw  name,'  he  said,  at  a  venture. 

'Then  yo're  a  stoopid,  for  it  has,'  replied  Louie, 
triumphantly.  '  It's  t'  Mermaid  Pool.  Theer  wor  a 
Manchester  mon  at  Wigsons'  last  week,  telling  aw 
maks  o'  tales.  Theer's  a  mermaid  lives  in  't — a 
woman,  I  tell  tha,  wi  a  fish's  tail — it's  in  a  book,  an 


CHAi'.   II  ("IIILDIIOOD  23 

he  read  it  out,  soa  theer — an  on  Easter  Eve  neet  she 
coonis  out,  an  walks  about  t'  Scout,  combin  lier  liair 
— an  if  onybody  sees  lier  an  wishes  for  soonithin,  tlicy 
get  it,  sartin  sure;  an ' 

'Mermaids  is  just  faddle  an  nonsense,'  interrupted 
David,  tersely. 

'  Oh,  is  they  ?  Then  T  spose  books  is  faddle. 
Most  on  'em  are — t'  kind  of  books  yo  like — I'll  u})- 
howd  yo ! ' 

*0h,  is  they?'  said  David,  mimicking  her.  'Wal, 
I  like  'em,  yo  see,  aw  t'  same.  I  tell  yo,  mermaids  is 
nonsense,  cos  T  ^->jo?"  they  are.  Theer  was  yan  at 
I  [ay  field  Fair,  an  the  fellys  they  nearly  smashed  t' 
booth  down,  cos  they  said  it  wor  a  cheat.  Theer  was 
just  a  gell,  an  they'd  stuffed  her  into  a  fish's  skin  and 
sewed  'er  up  ;  an  when  yo  went  close  yo  could  see  t' 
stuffin  runnin  out  of  her.  An  theer  was  a  man  as 
held  'er  up  by  a  wire  roun  her  waist,  an  waggled  her  i' 
t'  watter.  But  t'  foak  as  had  paid  sixpence  to  coom 
in,  they  just  took  an  tore  down  t'  place,  an  they'd  'a 
dookt  t'  man  an  t'  gell  boath,  if  th'  coonstable  hadn't 
coom.  Naw,  mermaids  is  faddle,'  he  repeated  con- 
temptuously. 

'  Faddle  ? '  repeated  'Lias,  interrogatively. 

The  children  started.  They  had  supposed  'Lias 
was  off  doting  and  talking  gibberish  for  the  rest  of 
the  morning.  But  his  tone  was  brisk,  and  as  David 
looked  up  he  caught  a  queer  flickering  brightness  in 
the  old  man's  eye,  which  showed  him  that  'Lias  was 
once  more  capable  of  furnishing  amusement  or  infor- 
mation. 

'  ^Vhat  do  they  coe  that  bit  watter,  'Lias  ? '  he 
inquired,  pointing  to  it. 

*  That  bit  watter  ? '  repeated  'Lias,  eyeing  it.  A  sort 
of  vague  trouble  came  into  his  face,  and  his  wrinkled 
hands  lying  on  his  stick  began  to  twitch  nervously. 


24  THE    HI8TOKY   OF   DAVID   GKIEVE       book  i 

*  Aye — theer's  a  Manchester  man  been  cramming 
Wigsons  wi  tales — says  he  gets  em  out  of  a  book — 
bout  a  woman  'at  walks  t'  Scout  Easter  Eve  neet, — 
an  a  lot  o'  ninny-hommer's  talk.  Yo  niver  heerd 
nowt  about  it — did  yo,  'Lias  ?  ' 

'Yes,  yo  did,  Mr.  Dawson — now,  didn't  yo  ? '  said 
Louie,  persuasively,  enraged  that  David  would  never 
accept  information  from  her,  while  she  was  always 
expected  to  take  it  from  him. 

'  A  woman —  'at  walks  t'  Scout,'  said  'Lias,  uncer- 
tainly, flushing  as  he  spoke. 

Then,  looking  tremulously  from  his  companions  to 
the  pool,  he  said,  angrily  raising  his  stick  and  shaking 
it  at  David,  '  Davy,  yo're  takin  advantage — Davy, 
yo're  doin  what  yo  owt  not.  If  my  Margret  were 
here,  she'd  let  yo  know  ! ' 

The  words  rose  into  a  cry  of  quavering  passion. 
The  children  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  But  as 
Davy,  aggrieved,  was  defending  himself,  the  old 
man  laid  a  violent  hand  on  his  arm  and  silenced 
him.  His  eyes,  which  were  black  and  keen  still  in 
the  blanched  face,  were  riveted  on  the  gleaming  pool. 
His  features  worked  as  though  under  the  stress  of 
some  possessing  force ;  a  shiver  ran  through  the 
emaciated  limbs. 

'  Oh  I  yo  want  to  know  abeaAvt  Jenny  Crum's  pool, 
do  yo  ?  '  he  said  at  last  in  a  low  agitated  voice.  '  i^Tob- 
but  look,  my  lad ! — nobbut  look  I — and  see  for  your- 
sen.' 

He  paused,  his  chest  heaving,  his  eye  fixed.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  broke  out  in  a  flood  of  passionate  speech, 
still  gripping  David. 

'  Passon  Maine !  Passon  Maine ! — ha  yo  got  her,  th' 
owd  woman  ?  Aye,  aye — sure  enough — 'at  's  she — as 
yo're  aw  drivin  afore  yo — hoontit  like  a  wild  beeast — 
wi  her  grey  hair  streamin,  and  her  hands  tied — Ah  ! ' 


CHAP.  II  CHILDHOOD  25 

— and  the  old  man  gave  a  wild  ory,  which  startled 
both  the  children  to  their  feet.  'Conno  yo  hear  her? 
eh,  but  it's  enough  to  tear  a  body's  heart  out  to  hear 
an  owd  woman  scream  like  that ! ' 

He  stopped,  trembling,  and  listened,  his  hand  hol- 
lowed to  his  ear.  Louie  looked  at  her  brother  and 
laughed  nervously  ;  but  her  little  hard  face  had  paled. 
David  laid  hold  of  her  to  keej)  her  quiet,  and  shook 
himself  free  of  'Lias.  But  'Lias  took  no  notice  of 
them  now  at  all,  his  changed  seer's  gaze  saw  nothing 
but  the  distance  and  the  pool. 

'Are  yo  quite  sure  it  wor  her,  Passon?'  he  went 
on,  appealingly.  '  She's  nobbut  owd,  an  it's  a  far  cry 
fro  her  bit  cottage  to  owd  Needham's  Farm.  An  th' 
chilt  might  ha  deed,  and  t'  cattle  might  ha  strayed,  and 
t'  geyats  might  ha  opened  o'  theirsels  !  Yo'll  not  dare 
to  speak  agen  that.  They  mirjht?  Ay,  ay,  we  aw  know 
t'    devil's   strong;     but   she's   eighty -one   year   coom 

Christmas — an — an .     Doan't,  domi't  let  t'  childer 

see,  nor  t'  yoong  gells  !  If  yo  let  em  see  sich  sects 
they'll  breed  yo  wolves,  not  babes  !     Ah  ! ' 

And  again  'Lias  gave  the  same  cry,  and  stood  half 
risen,  his  hands  on  his  staff,  looking. 

'  What  is  it,  'Lias  ? '  said  David,  eagerly  ;  '  what  is  't 
yo  see  ? ' 

'  Theer's  my  grandfeyther,'  said  'Lias,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  'an  owd  Xeedham  an  his  two  brithers,  an 
yoong  Jack  Needham's  woife — her  as  losst  her  babby 
— an  yoong  lads  an  lasses  fro  Clough  End,  childer 
awmost,  and  t'  coonstable,  and  Passon  Maine — Ay — 
ay — yo've  doon  it !  yo've  doon  it !  She'll  mak  naw 
moor  mischeef  neets — she's  gay  quiet  now !  T'  wat- 
ter's  got  her  fasst  enough ! ' 

And,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  the  old 
man  pointed  a  quivering  finger  at  the  pool. 

'  Ay,  it's  got  her — an   your  stones  are  tied  fasst ! 


26;  THE    HISTORY    OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

Passon  Maine  says  she's  safe — that  yo'll  see  her  naw 

jnoor — 

While  holly  sticks  be  green, 

While  stone  on  Kinder  Scoot  be  seen. 

But  1  tell  yo,  Passon  Maine  lees!  1  tell  yo  t'  witch 
ull  KaJk—t'  witch  ull  walk!' 

For  several  seconds  'liias  stood  straining  forward — 
out  of  himself — a  tragic  and  impressive  figure.  Then, 
in  a  moment,  from  that  distance  his  weird  gift  had  been 
re-peopling,  something  else  rose  towards  him-r-some 
liideous  memory,  as  it  seemed,  of  personal  anguish, 
personal  fear.  The  exalted  seer's  look  vanished,  the 
tension  within  gave  way,  the  old  man  shrank  together. 
He  fell  back  heavily  on  the  stone,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  muttering  to  himself. 

The  children  looked  at  each  other  oddly.  Then 
David,  half  afraid,  touched  him. 

'  What's  t'  matter,  'Lias  ?     Are  yo  bad  ?  ' 

The  old  man  did  not  move.  They  caught  some  dis- 
jointed Avords, — '  cold — ay,  t'  neet's  cold,  varra  cold ! ' 

'•'Lias! '  shouted  David. 

'Lias  looked  \\\)  startled,  anc^  shook  his  head  feebly. 

'  Are  yo  bad,  'Lias  ?  ' 

'  Ay  ! '  said  the  old  schoolmaster,  in  the  voice  of  one 
speaking  through  a  dream — '  ay,  varra  bad,  varra  cold 
— I  muu — lig  me  down — a  bit.' 

And  he  rose  feebly.  David  instinctively  caught 
hold  of  him,  and  led  him  to  a  corner  close  by  in  the 
ruined  walls,  where  the  heather  and  bilberry  grew  thick 
up  to  the  stones.  'Lias  sank  down,  his  head  fell  against 
the  wall,  and  a  light  and  restless  sleep  seemed  to  take 
possession  of  him. 

David  stood  studying  him,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
Never  in  all  his  experience  of  him  had  'Lias  gone 
through  such  a  performance  as  this.     What  on  earth 


CHAP.    11 


(JJilLl)lI(XJD  27 


did  it  mean  ?  There  was  more  in  it  than  appeared, 
clearly.  He  would  tell  jNIargaret,  'Lias's  old  wife,  who 
kept  liim  and  tended  him  like  the  apple  of  her  eye. 
And  he  would  find  out  about  the  pool,  anyway.  Jenni/ 
Cnim's  pool  ?  What  on  earth  did  that  mean  ?  The 
name  had  never  reached  his  ears  before.  Of  course 
Uncle  Eeuben  would  know.  The  boy  eyed  it  curiously, 
the  details  of  'Lias's  grim  vision  returning  upon  him. 
The  wild  circling  moor  seemed  suddenly  to  have  gained 
a  mysterious  interest. 

'Didn't  I  tell  yo  he  wor  gone  silly  ?'  said  Louie, 
triumphantly,  at  his  elbow. 

'  He's  not  gone  that  silly,  ony ways,  but  he  can  free- 
ten  little  gells,'  remarked  David,  dryly,  instinctively 
putting  out  an  arm,  meanwhile,  to  prevent  her  dis- 
turbing the  poor  sleeper. 

'I  worn't  froctened,'  insisted  liouie  ;  ^  yo  were  I 
He  may  skrike  aw  day  if  he  likes — for  aw  I  care. 
He'll  be  runnin  into  hedges  by  dayleet  soon.  Owd 
churn-yed  ! ' 

•  Howd  your  clatterin  tongue  ! '  said  David,  angrily, 
pushing  her  out  of  the  doorway.  She  lifted  a  loose 
sod  of  heather,  which  lay  just  outside,  flung  it  at  him, 
and  then  took  to  her  heels,  and  made  for  the  farm  and 
dinner,  with  the  speed  of  a  wild  goat. 

David  brushed  his  clothes,  took  a  stroll  with  the 
dogs,  and  recovered  his  temper  as  best  he  might. 
When  he  came  back,  pricked  by  the  state  of  his  appe- 
tite, to  see  whether  'Lias  had  recovered  enough  sanity 
to  get  home,  he  found  the  old  man  sitting  up,  looking 
strangely  Avhite  and  exhausted,  and  fumbling,  in  a 
dazed  way,  for  the  tobacco  to  which  he  always  re- 
sorted at  moments  of  nervous  fatigue.  His  good  wife 
Margaret  never  sent  him  out  Avithout  mended  clothes, 
spotless  linen,  and  a  paper  of  tobacco  in  his  pocket. 
He  sat  chewing  it  awhile  in  silence  ;  David's  remai'ks 


28  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID    GRIEVE       book  i 

to  him  met  with  only  incoherent  answers,  and  at  last 
the  schoolmaster  got  up  and  with  the  help  of  his  stick 
tottered  off  along  the  path  by  which  he  had  come. 
David's  eyes  followed  the  bent  figure  uneasily  ;  nor 
did  he  turn  homeward  till  it  disappeared  over  the 
brow. 


CHAPTER   III 

Anyone  opening  the  door  of  Xeedham  Farm  kitchen 
that  night  at  eight  would  have  found  the  inmates  at 
supper — a  meagre  supper,  which  should,  according  to 
the  rule  of  the  house,  have  been  eaten  in  complete 
silence.  Hannah  Grieve,  the  children's  aunt,  and 
mistress  of  the  farm,  thought  it  an  offence  to  talk  at 
meals.     She  had  not  been  so  brought  up. 

But  Louie  this  evening  was  in  a  state  of  nerves. 
The  afternoon  had  seen  one  of  those  periodical  strug- 
gles between  her  and  Hannah,  which  did  so  much  to 
kee])  life  at  Needham  Farm  from  stagnating  into  any- 
thing like  comfort.  The  two  combatants,  however, 
must  have  taken  a  certain  joy  in  them,  since  they 
recurred  with  so  much  regularity.  Hannah  had  won, 
of  course,  as  the  grim  self-importance  of  her  bearing 
amply  showed.  Louie  had  been  forced  to  patch  the 
house-linen  as  usual,  mainly  by  the  temjiorary  confis- 
cation of  her  Sunday  hat,  the  one  piece  of  decent 
clothing  she  possessed,  and  to  which  she  clung  with  a 
feverish  attachment — generally,  indeed,  sleeping  with 
it  beside  her  pillow.  But,  though  she  was  beaten,  she 
was  still  seething  with  rebellion.  Her  eyes  were  red, 
but  her  shaggy  head  was  thrown  back  defiantly,  and 
there  was  hysterical  battle  in  the  expression  of  her 
sharply  tilted  nose  and  chin. 

'Mind  yorsel,'  cried  Hannah  angrily,  as  the  child 


CHAP,  in  CHILDHOOD  29 

put   down  her  plate  of  porridge  with  a  bang  which 
made  the  housewife  tremble  for  her  crockery. 

'  What's  t'  matter  wi  yo,  Louie  ?  '  said  Uncle  Reu- 
ben, looking  at  her  with  some  discomfort.  He  had 
just  finished  the  delivery  of  a  long  grace,  into  which 
he  had  thrown  much  unction,  and  Louie's  manners 
made  but  an  ill-fitting  Amen. 

'  It's  nasty  !  *  said  the  child  passionately.  '  It's 
alius  porridge — porridge — porridge — porridge — an  I 
hate  it — an  it's  bitter — an  it's  a  shame  !  I  wish  I  wor 
at  Wigson's— 'at  I  do  I ' 

Davy  glanced  up  at  his  sister  under  his  eyebrows. 
Hannah  scanned  her  niece  all  over  with  a  slow,  ob- 
servant scrutiny,  as  though  she  were  a  dangerous 
animal  that  must  be  watched.  Otherwise  Louie  misrht 
have  spoken  to  the  wall  for  all  the  effect  she  produced. 
Reuben,  however,  was  more  vulnerable. 

'  What  d'  3^0  want  to  be  at  Wigson's  for  ? '  he  asked. 
'Yo  should  be  content  wi  your  state  o'  life,  Louie. 
It's  a  sin  to  be  discontented — I've  tellt  yo  so  many 
times.' 

'  They've  got  scones  and  rhubarb  jam  for  tea  I ' 
cried  the  child,  tunibling  the  news  out  as  though  she 
were  bursting  with  it.  'Mrs.  Wigson,  she's  alius 
makin  em  nice  things.  She's  kind,  she  is — she's  nice 
— she  wouldn't  make  em  eat  stuff  like  this — she'd  give 
it  to  the  pigs — 'at  she  would  ! ' 

And  all  the  time  it  was  pitiful  to  see  how  the  child 
was  gobbling  up  her  unpalatable  food,  evidently  from 
the  instinctive  fear,  nasty  as  it  was,  that  it  would  be 
taken  from  her  as  a  punishment  for  her  behaviour. 

'  Xow,  Louie,  yo're  a  silly  gell,'  began  Reuben,  ex- 
postulating ;  but  Hannah  interposed. 

'Iwudn't  advise  yo,  Reuben  Grieve,  to  go  wastin 
your  breath  on  sich  a  minx.  If  I  were  yo,  I'd  keep  it 
fur  my  awn  eatin.' 


30  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID    GRIEVE       book  i 

And  she  calmly  put  another  slice  of  cold  bacon  on 
his  plate,  as  though  reminding  him  of  his  proper 
business.  Eeuben  fell  silent  and  munched  his  bacon, 
though  be  could  not  forbear  studying  his  niece  every 
now  and  then  uncomfortably.  He  Avas  a  tall,  large- 
boned  man,  with  weakish  eyes,  sandy  whiskers  and 
beard,  grown  in  a  fringe  round  his  long  face,  and  a 
generall}'  clumsy  and  disjointed  air.  The  tremulous, 
uncertain  movements  of  his  hand  as  he  stretched  it 
out  for  one  article  of  food  after  another  seemed  to 
express  the  man's  character. 

Louie  went  on  gulping  down  her  porridge.  Her 
plate  was  just  empty  when  Hannah  caught  a  move- 
ment of  Reuben's  fork.  He  was  in  the  act  of  fur- 
tively transferring  to  Louie  a  portion  of  bacon.  But 
he  could  not  restrain  himself  from  looking  at  Hannah 
as  he  held  out  the  morsel.  Hannah's  answering  look 
was  too  much  for  him.  The  bacon  went  into  his 
mouth. 

Supper  over,  Louie  went  out  to  sit  on  the  steps,  and 
Hannah  contemptuously  forbore  to  make  her  come  in 
and  help  clear  away.  Out  in  the  air,  the  child  slowly 
quieted  down.  It  was  a  clear,  frosty  April  night, 
promising  a  full  moon.  The  fresh,  nipping  air  blew 
on  the  girl's  heated  temples  and  swollen  eyes.  Against 
her  will  almost,  her  spirits  came  back.  She  swept 
Aunt  Hannah  out  of  her  mind,  and  began  to  plan 
something  which  consoled  her.  When  would  they 
have  their  stupid  prayers  and  let  her  get  upstairs  ? 

David  meanwhile  hung  about  the  kitchen.  He 
would  have  liked  to  ask  Uncle  Reuben  about  the  pool 
and  'Lias's  story,  but  Hannah  was  bustling  about,  and 
he  never  mentioned  'Lias  in  her  hearing.  To  do  so 
would  have  been  like  handing  over  something  weak, 
for  which  he  had  a  tenderness,  to  be  Avorried. 

But  he  rummaged  out  an  old  paper-covered  guide 


cHAi'.  Ill  nilLDIIOOD  31 

to  the  Peak,  which  lie  renieinbered  to  liave  been  left 
at  tlie  farm  one  sinnmcr's  day  b}'  a  passing  tourist, 
who  paid  Hannah  handsomely  for  some  bread  and 
cheese.  Turning  to  the  part  which  concerned  Clough 
End,  Hayfield,  and  the  Scout,  he  found  : — 

'In  speaking  of  the  Mermaiden's  Pool,  it  may  be 
remarked  that  the  natives  of  several  little  hamlets 
surrounding  Kinder  .Scout  have  long  had  a  tradition 
that  there  is  a  beautiful  woman — an  English  Hama- 
dryad— lives  in  the  side  of  the  Scout;  that  she  comes 
to  bathe  every  day  in  the  ]\lermaid's  Well,  and  that 
the  man  who  has  the  good  luck  to  behold  her  bathing 
will  become  immortal  and  never  die.' 

David  shut  the  book  and  fell  pondering,  like  many 
another  wiser  mortal  before  him,  on  the  discrepancies 
of  evidence.  What  was  a  Hamadryad?  and  why  no 
mention  of  Easter  Eve  '.'  and  what  had  it  all  to  do 
with  the  witch  and  Parson  Maine  and  'Lias's  ex- 
citement ? 

Meanwhile,  the  thump  made  by  the  big  family 
Bible  as  Hannah  deposited  it  on  the  table  warned 
both  him  and  the  truant  outside  that  prayer-time  had 
come.  Louie  came  in  noisily  Avhen  she  was  called, 
and  both  children  lounged  unwillingly  into  their  ap- 
pointed seats. 

Nothing  but  the  impatience  and  inditference  of 
childhood,  however,  could  have  grudged  Reuben 
Grieve  the  half-hour  which  followed.  During  that 
one  half-hour  in  the  day,  the  mild,  effaced  man,  w^hose 
absent-minded  ways  and  complete  lack  of  business 
faculty  were  the  perpetual  torment  of  his  wife,  was 
master  of  his  house.  While  he  was  rolling  out  the 
psalm,  expounding  the  chapter,  or  '  wrestling '  in 
prayer,  he  was  a  personality  and  an  influence  even  for 
the  wife  who,  in  spite  of  a  dumb  congruity  of  habit, 
regarded    him  generally   as   incompetent    and   in   the 


32  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

way.  Reuben's  religious  sense  was  strong  and  deep, 
but  some  very  natural  and  pathetically  human  in- 
stincts entered  also  into  his  constant  pleasure  in  this 
daily  function.  Hannah,  with  her  strong  and  harsh 
features  settled  into  repose,  with  her  large  hands,  red- 
dened by  the  day's  work,  lying  idle  in  her  lap,  sat  op- 
posite to  him  in  silence ;  for  once  she  listened  to  him, 
whereas  all  day  he  had  listened  to  her ;  and  the  mo- 
ment made  a  daily  oasis  in  the  life  of  a  man  who,  in 
his  own  dull,  peasant  way,  knew  that  he  was  a  failure, 
and  knew  also  that  no  one  was  so  Avell  aware  of  it  as 
his  wife. 

With  David  and  Louie  the  absorbing  interest  was 
generally  to  see  whether  the  prayer  would  be  over 
before  the  eight-day  clock  struck  nine,  or  whether  the 
loud  whirr  which  preceded  that  event  would  be  sud- 
denly and  deafeningly  let  loose  upon  Uncle  Eeuben 
in  the  middle  of  his  peroration,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened when  the  speaker  forgot  himself.  To-night 
that  catastrophe  was  just  avoided  by  a  somewhat  ob- 
vious hurry  through  the  Lord's  Prayer.  When  they 
rose  from  their  knees  Hannah  put  away  the  Bible, 
the  boy  and  girl  raced  each  other  upstairs,  and  the 
elders  were  left  alone. 

An  hour  passed  away.  Reuben  was  dozing  j^eace- 
fully  in  the  chimney-corner ;  Aunt  Hannah  had  just 
finished  putting  a  patch  on  a  pair  of  Reuben's  trousers, 
was  folding  up  her  work  and  preparing  to  rouse  her 
slumbering  companion,  when  a  sound  overhead  caught 
her  ear. 

'What's  that  chilt  at  now  ?  '  she  exclaimed  angrily, 
getting  lip  and  listening.  '  She'd  owt  ta  been  in  bed 
long  ago.  Soomthin  mischeevous,  I'll  be  bound.' 
And  lighting  a  dip  beside  her,  she  went  upstairs  with 
a  treacherously  quiet  step.  There  was  a  sound  of  an 
opeidng  door,  and  then  Reuben  downstairs  was  startled 


CHAP.  Ill  riITLT)Iir)nD  33 

out  of  liis  snooze  by  a  sudden  gamut  of  angry  cries,  a 
scurrying  of  feet,  and  Hannah  scolding  loudly — 

'  Coom  downstairs  wi  yo  ! — cooni  down  an  show 
your  uncle  what  a  figure  o'  foon  yo'n  been  makkin 
o'  yorsel !  I'st  teach  yo  to  burn  three  candles  down 
awbut  to  nothink  'at  yo  may  bedizen  yorsel  Mj^his 
way.     Coom  along  wi  yo.' 

There  was  a  scuttte  on  the  stairs,  and  then  Hannah 
burst  open  the  door,  dragging  in  an  extraordinary 
figure  indeed.  Struggling  and  crying  in  her  aunt's 
grip,  was  Louie.  White  trailing  folds  swept  behind 
her ;  a  white  garnipnt  underneath,  apparently  her 
nightgown,  was  festooned  with  an  old  red-and-blue 
striped  sash  of  some  foreign  make.  Round  her  neck 
hung  a  necklace  of  that  gold  filigree  work  which 
spreads  from  Genoa  all  along  the  Riviera ;  her  mag- 
nificent hair  hung  in  masses  over  her  shoulders, 
crowned  by  the  primroses  of  the  morning,  which  had 
been  hurriedly  twisted  into  a  wreath  by  a  bit  of  red 
ribbon  rummaged  out  of  some  drawer  of  odds-and-ends  ; 
and  her  thin  brown  arms  and  hands  appeared  under 
the  white  cloak — nothing  but  a  sheet — which  was  be- 
ing now  trodden  underfoot  in  the  child's  passionate 
efforts  to  get  away  from  her  aunt.  Ten  minutes  be- 
fore she  had  been  a  happy  queen  flaunting  over  her 
attic  floor  in  a  dream  of  joy  before  a  broken,  propped- 
up  looking-glass  under  the  splendid  illumination  of 
three  dips,  long  since  secreted  for  purposes  of  the 
kind.  Now  she  was  a  bedraggled,  tear-stained  Fury, 
with  a  fierce  humiliation  and  a  boundless  hatred  glar- 
ing out  of  the  eyes,  which  in  Aunt  Hannah's  opinion 
were  so  big  as  to  be  '  right  down  oogly.'     I'oor  Louie  ! 

Uncle  Reuben,  startled  from  his  snooze  by  this 
apparition,  looked  at  it  with  a  sleepy  bewilderment, 
and  fumbled  for  his  spectacles.  'Ay,  yo'd  better 
hike  at  her  close,'  said    Hannah,  grimly,  giving  her 

VOL.   1  D 


34    •  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

niece  a  violent  shake  as  she  spoke ;  '  I  wor  set  yo 
shouhl  just  see  her  fur  yance  at  lier  antics.  Yo  say 
soomtimes  I'm  hard  on  her.  Well,  I'd  ask  ony  pusson 
aloive  if  they'd  put  up  wi  this  soart  o'  thing — dressin 
np  like  a  bad  hizzy  that  waaks  t'  streets,  wi  three 
candles — three,  I  tell  yo,  Reuben — flarin  away,  and 
the  curtains  close  to,  an  nothink  but  the  Lord's  muss}' 
keepin  'em  from  catchin.  An  she  peacockin  an  galli- 
vantin  away  enough  to  mak  a  cat  laugh ! ' 

And  Aunt  Hannah  in  her  enraged  scorn  even 
undertook  a  grotesque  and  mincing  imitation  of  the 
peacocking  aforesaid.  '  Let  goo  ! '  muttered  Louie  be- 
tween her  shut  teeth,  and  with  a  wild  strengtli  she 
at  last  flung  off  her  aunt  and  sprang  for  the  door. 
But  Hannah  was  too  quick  for  her  and  put  her  back 
against  it. 

'  Xo — yo'll  not  goo  till  your  ooncle  there's  gien  yo 
a  word.  He  sliati't  say  I'm  hard  on  yo  for  nothink, 
yo  good-for-nowt  little  powsement — he  shall  see  yo  as 
yo  are ! ' 

And  with  the  bitterness  of  a  smouldering  grievance, 
expressed  in  every  feature,  Hannah  looked  peremp- 
torily at  her  liusl)and.  He,  poor  man,  was  much  per- 
plexed. The  liour  of  devotion  was  past,  and  outside 
it  he  was  not  accustomed  to  be  placed  in  important 
situations. 

'■  Louie — didn't  yo  know  yo  wor  a  bad  gell  to 
stay  up  and  burn  t'  candles,  an  fret  your  aunt  ?  '  he 
said  with  a  feeble  solemnity,  his  look  fixed  on  the 
huddled  white  figure  against  the  mahogany  press. 

Louie  stood  with  eyes  resolutely  cast  down,  and  a 
forced  smile,  tremulous,  but  insolent  to  a  degree,  slowly 
lifting  up  the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  Uncle  Reuben 
addressed  her.  The  tears  were  still  running  off  her 
face,  but  she  meant  her  smile  to  convey  the  indomi- 
table scorn  for  her  tormentors  which  not  even  Aunt 
Hannah  could  shake  out  of  lier. 


CHAP.    Ill 


CHII.DIIOOD  35 


Hannah  Grieve  was  exasperated  by  the-  child's  ex- 
pression. 

'  Yo  litth>  sloot ! '  she  said,  seizing  licr  by  the  arm 
again,  and  losing  her  temper  for  good  and  all,  '  yo've 
got  your  mither's  bad  blude  in  yo — an  it  uU  coom  out, 
happen  what  may  ! ' 

'  Hannah  ! '  exclaimed  Reuben,  '  Hannah — mind 
yoursel.' 

'  .My  mither's  dead,'  said  the  child,  slowly  raising  her 
dark,  burning  eyes.  '  ^ly  mither  worn't  bad ;  an  if  yo 
say  she  wor,  yo're  a  beast  for  sayin  it !  I  wish  it  wor 
yo  wor  dead,  an  my  mither  wor  here  instead  o'  yo  ! ' 

To  convey  the  concentrated  rage  of  this  speech  is 
impossible.  It  seemed  to  Hannah  that  the  child  had 
the  evil  eye.     Even  she  quailed  under  it. 

'  Go  'long  wi  yo,'  she  said  grimly,  in  a  white  heat, 
while  she  opened  the  door — •  an  the  less  yo  coom  into 
my  way  for  t'  future,  the  better.' 

She  pushed  the  child  out  and  shut  the  door. 

'  Yo  are  hard  on  her,  Hannah  I '  exclaimed  Reuben,  in 
his  perplexity — pricked,  too,  as  usual  in  his  conscience. 

The  repetition  of  this  parrot-cry,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
maddened  his  wife. 

'  She's  a  wanton's  brat,'  she  said  violently ;  '  an  she's 
got  t'  wanton's  blood.' 

Reuben  was  silent.  He  was  afraid  of  his  wife  in 
these  moods.  Hannah  began,  with  trembling  hands, 
to  pick  up  the  contents  of  her  work-basket,  which  had 
been  overturned  in  the  seutiie. 

Meanwhile  Louie  rushed  upstairs,  stumbling  over 
and  tearing  her  finery,  the  convulsive  sobs  beginning 
again  as  soon  as  the  tension  of  her  aunt's  hated  pres- 
ence was  removed. 

At  the  top  she  ran  against  something  in  the  dark. 
It  was  David,  who  had  been  hanging  over  the  stairs, 
listening.     Rut  she  flung  past  him. 


36  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  i 

'  What's  t'  matter,  Louie  ? '  he  asked  in  a  loud  whis- 
per through  the  door  slie  shut  in  his  face  ;  'what's  th' 
owd  crosspatch  been  slanging  about  ? ' 

But  he  got  no  answer,  and  he  was  afraid  of  being 
caught  by  Aunt  Hannah  if  he  forced  his  way  in.  So 
he  went  back  to  his  OAvn  room,  and  closed,  without 
latching,  his  door.  He  had  had  an  inch  of  dip  to  go 
to  bed  with,  and  had  spent  that  on  reading.  His  book 
was  a  battered  copy  of  '  Anson's  Voyages,'  which  also 
came  from  'Lias's  store,  and  he  had  been  straining  his 
eyes  over  it  with  enchantment.  Then  had  come  the 
sudden  noise  upstairs  and  down,  and  his  candle  and 
his  pleasure  had  gone  out  together.  The  heavy  foot- 
steps of  his  uncle  and  aunt  ascending  warned  him  to 
keep  quiet.  They  turned  into  their  room,  and  locked 
their  door  as  their  habit  was.  David  noiselessly 
opened  his  window  and  looked  out. 

A  clear  moonlight  reigned  outside.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish the  rounded  shapes,  the  occasional  move- 
ments of  the  sheep  in  their  pen  to  the  right  of  the 
farmyard.  The  trees  in  the  field  threw  long  shadows 
down  the  white  slope ;  to  his  left  was  the  cart-shed 
with  its  black  caverns  and  recesses,  and  the  branches 
of  the  apple-trees  against  the  luminous  sky.  Owls 
were  calling  in  the  woods  below  ;  sometimes  a  bell 
round  the  neck  of  one  of  the  sheep  tinkled  a  little,  and 
the  river  made  a  distant  background  of  sound. 

The  boy's  heart  grew  heavy.  After  the  noises  in 
the  Grieves'  room  ceased  he  listened  for  something 
which  he  knew  must  be  in  the  air,  and  caught  it — the 
sound  of  a  child's  long,  smothered  sobs.  On  most 
nights  they  would  not  have  made  much  impression  on 
him.  Louie's  ways  with  her  brother  were  no  more 
engaging  than  with  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  she  was 
not  a  creature  who  invited  consolation  from  anybody. 
David,  too,  with  his  power  of  escape  at  any  time  into 


CHAP.  Ill  CHILDHOOD  37 

a  world  of  books  and  dreams  or  simply  into  the  wild 
shepherd  life  of  the  moors,  was  often  inclined  to  a 
vague  irritation  with  Louie's  state  of  perpetual  revolt. 
The  ioodicas  nasty,  their  clothes  Z6'e?-e  ugly  and  scanty, 
Aunt  Hannah  ivas  as  hard  as  nails — at  the  same  time 
Louie  was  enough  to  put  anybody's  back  up.  What 
did  she  get  by  it? — that  was  liis  feeling;  though,  per- 
haps, he  never  shaped  it.  He  had  never  felt  much 
pity  for  her.  She  had  a  way  of  putting  herself  out  of 
court,  and  he  was,  of  course,  too  young  to  see  her  life 
or  his  own  as  a  whole.  What  their  relationship  might 
mean  to  hiiu  was  still  vague — to  be  decided  by  the 
future.  Whatever  softness  there  was  in  the  boy  was 
at  this  moment  called  out  by  other  people — by  old 
'Lias  and  his  wife  ;  by  Mr.  Ancrum,  the  lame  minister 
at  Clough  End ;  by  the  dogs ;  hardly  ever  by  Louie. 
He  had  grown  used,  moreover,  to  her  perpetual  explo- 
sions, and  took  them  generally  with  a  boy's  natural 
callousness. 

But  to-night  her  woes  affected  him  as  they  had 
never  done  before.  The  sound  of  her  sobbing,  as  he 
stood  listening,  gradually  roused  in  him  an  unbearable 
restlessness.  An  unaccountable  depression  stole  upon 
him — the  reaction,  perhaps,  from  a  good  deal  of  men- 
tal exertion  and  excitement  in  the  day.  A  sort  of  sick 
distaste  awoke  in  him  for  most  of  the  incidents  of 
existence — for  Aunt  Hannah,  for  Uncle  Keuben's  in- 
comprehensible prayers,  for  the  thought  of  the  long 
Puritanical  Sunday  just  coming.  And,  in  addition, 
the  low  vibrations  of  that  distant  sobbing  stirred  in 
him  again,  by  association,  certain  memories  which 
were  like  a  clutch  of  physical  i)ain,  and  which  the 
healthy  young  animal  instinctively  and  passionately 
avoided  whenever  it  could.  But  to-night,  in  the  dark 
and  in  solitude,  there  were  no  distractions,  and  as  the 
boy  put  his  head  down  on  his  arms,  rolling  it  from 


38  THE    HISTORY    OF    DAVID    GRIEVE       book  i 

side  to  side  as  though  to  shake  them  off,  the  same  old 
images  pursued  him — the  lodging-house  room,  and  the 
curtainless  iron  bed  in  which  he  slept  with  his  father; 
reminiscences  of  some  long,  inexplicable  anguish 
through  which  that  father  had  passed;  then  of  his 
death,  and  his  own  lonely  crying.  He  seemed  still  to 
feel  the  strange  sheets  in  that  bed  upstairs,  where  a 
compassionate  fellow-lodger  had  put  him  the  night 
after  his  father  died  ;  he  sat  up  again  bewildered  in 
the  cold  dawn,  tilled  with  a  home-sickness  too  be- 
nvimbing  for  words.  He  resented  these  memories, 
tried  to  banish  them ;  but  the  nature  on  which  they 
were  impressed  was  deep  and  rich,  and,  once  shaken, 
vibrated  long.  The  boy  trembled  through  and  through. 
The  more  he  was  ordinarily  shed  abroad,  diffused  in 
the  life  of  sensation  and  boundless  mental  curiosity,  the 
blacker  were  these  rare  moments  of  self-consciousness, 
Avheu  all  the  world  seemed  pain,  an  iron  vice  which 
pinched  and  tortured  him. 

At  last  he  went  to  his  door,  pulled  it  gently  open, 
and  with  bare  feet  went  across  to  Louie's  room,  which 
he  entered  with  infinite  caution.  The  moonlight  was 
streaming  in  on  the  poor  gauds,  which  lay  wildly 
scattered  over  the  floor.  David  looked  at  them  with 
amazement.  Amongst  them  he  saw  something  glitter- 
ing. He  picked  it  up,  saw  it  was  a  gold  necklace  which 
had  been  his  mother's,  and  carefully  put  it  on  the  little 
toilet  table. 

Then  he  walked  on  to  the  bed.  Louie  was  lying 
with  her  face  turired  away  from  him.  A  certain  pause 
in  the  sobbing  as  he  came  near  told  him  that  she 
knew  he  was  there.  But  it  began  again  directly, 
being  indeed  a  physical  relief  which  the  child  could 
not  deny  herself.  He  stood  beside  her  awkwardly. 
He  conld  think  of  nothing  to  say.  But  timidly  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  the  back  of  it  against 


ruAP.  IV  ClIILJ)lli)OD  30 

her  wet  cheek.  He  half  expected  she  would  shake 
it  off,  but  she  did  not.  It  made  him  feel  less  lonely 
that  she  let  it  stay;  the  impulse  to  comfort  had  some- 
how brought  himself  comfort.  He  stood  there,  feel- 
ing very  cold,  thinking  a  whirlwind  of  thoughts  about 
old  'Lias,  about  the  sheep,  about  Titus  and  Jerusalem, 
and  about  Louie's  extraordinary  proceedings — till 
suddenly  it  struck  him  that  Louie  was  not  crying  any 
more.  He  bent  over  her.  The  sobs  had  changed  into 
the  long  breaths  of  sleep,  and,  gently  drawing  away 
his  hand,  he  crept  off  to  bed. 


CHAPTER   IV 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  still  cold,  nipping,  and 
sunny.  Reuben  Grieve  sat  at  the  door  of  the  farm- 
house, his  pipe  in  his  hand,  a  '  good  book '  on  his  knee. 
Beyond  the  wall  which  bounded  the  farmyard  he 
could  hear  occasional  voices.  The  children  were  sit- 
ting there,  he  supposed.  It  gave  him  a  sensation  of 
jdeasure  once  to  hear  a  shrill  laugh,  which  he  knew 
was  Louie's.  For  all  this  morning,  through  the  long 
services  in  the  '  Christian  Brethren '  chapel  at  Clough 
End,  and  on  the  walk  home,  he  had  been  once  more 
pricked  in  his  conscience.  Hannah  and  Louie  were 
not  on  speaking  terms.  At  meals  the  annt  assigned 
the  child  her  coarse  food  without  a  word,  and  on  the 
way  to  chapel  and  back  there  had  been  a  stony  silence 
between  them.  It  was  evident,  even  to  his  dull  mind, 
that  the  girl  was  white  and  thin,  and  that  between 
her  wild  temper  and  mischief  and  the  mirth  of  other 
children  there  was  a  great  difference.  Moreover,  cer- 
tain passages  in  the  chapel  prayers  that  morning  had 
come  home  sharply  to  a  mind  whereof  the  only  defi- 


40  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

nite  gift  was  a  true  religious  sensitiveness.  The  text 
of  the  sermon  especially — ■■  Whoso  loveth  not  his 
brother,  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  shall  he  love  God, 
whom  he  hath  not  seen  ? ' — vibrated  like  an  accus- 
ing voice  within  him.  As  he  sat  in  the  doorway,  with 
the  sun  stealing  in  upon  him,  the  clock  ticking  loudly 
at  his  back,  and  the  hens  scratching  round  the  steps, 
he  began  to  think  with  much  discomfort  about  his 
dead  brother  and  his  brother's  children. 

As  to  his  memories  of  the  past,  they  may  perhaps 
be  transformed  here  into  a  short  family  history,  with 
some  details  added  which  had  no  place  in  Reuben's 
mind.  Twenty  years  before  this  present  date  Needham 
— once  Needham's — Farm  had  been  held  by  Reuben's 
father,  a  certain  James  Grieve.  He  had  originally 
been  a  kind  of  farm-labourer  on  the  Berwickshire 
border,  who,  driven  southwards  in  search  of  work  by 
the  stress  of  the  bad  years  which  followed  the  great 
war,  had  wandered  on,  taking  a  job  of  work  here  and 
another  there,  and  tramping  many  a  score  of  weary 
miles  between,  till  at  last  in  this  remote  Derbyshire 
valley  he  had  found  a  final  anchorage.  Needham  Farm 
was  then  occupied  by  a  young  couple  of  the  name  of 
Pierson,  beginning  life  under  fairly  prosperous  circum- 
stances. James  Grieve  took  service  with  them,  and 
they  valued  his  strong  sinews  and  stern  Calvinistic 
probity  as  they  deserved.  But  he  had  hardly  been 
two  years  on  the  farm  when  his  young  employer,  doz- 
ing one  winter  evening  on  the  shafts  of  his  cart  coming 
back  from  Glossop  market,  fell  off,  was  run  over,  and 
killed.  The  widow,  a  young  thing,  nearly  lost  her 
senses  with  grief,  and  James,  a  man  of  dour  exterior 
and  few  words,  set  himself  to  keep  things  going  on 
the  farm  till  she  was  able  to  look  life  in  the  face  again. 
Her  sister  came  to  be  with  her,  and  there  was  a  child 
born,  which  died.     She  was  left  better  provided  for 


ruAF.  IV  CHILDHOOD  41 

than  most  women  of  her  class,  and  she  had  expecta- 
tions from  her  parents.  After  the  child's  death,  when 
the  widow  began  to  go  about  again,  and  James  still 
managed  all  the  work  of  the  farm,  the  neighbours 
naturally  fell  talking.  James  took  no  notice,  and  he 
was  not  a  man  to  meddle  with,  either  in  a  public- 
house  or  elsewhere.  But  presently  a  crop  of  suitors 
for  the  widow  began  to  appear,  and  it  became  neces- 
sary also  to  settle  the  destiny  of  the  farm.  Xo  one 
outside  ever  knew  how  it  came  aloout,  for  Jenny  Pier- 
son,  who  was  a  soft,  prettyish  creature,  had  given  no 
particular  sign;  but  one  Sunday  morning  the  banns  of 
James  Grieve,  bachelor,  and  Jenny  Pierson,  widow, 
were  suddenly  given  out  in  the  Presbyterian  chapel  at 
Clough  End,  to  the  mingled  astonishment  and  disgust 
of  the  neighbourhood. 

Years  passed  away.  James  held  his  own  for  a  time 
with  any  farmer  of  the  neighbourhood.  But,  by  the 
irony  of  fate,  the  prosperity  which  his  industry  and 
tenacity  deserved  was  filched  from  him  little  by  little 
hy  the  ill-health  of  his  wife.  She  bore  him  two  sons, 
Reuben  and  Alexander,  and  then  she  sank  into  a  hope- 
less, fretful  invalid,  tormented  by  the  internal  ailment 
of  which  she  ultimately  died.  But  the  small  farmer 
who  employs  little  or  no  labour  is  lost  without  an 
active  wife.  If  he  has  to  pay  for  the  milking  of  his 
cows,  the  making  of  his  butter,  the  cooking  of  his 
food,  and  the  nursing  of  liis  children,  his  little  margin 
of  profit  is  soon  eaten  away ;  and  with  the  disappear- 
ance of  this  margin,  existence  becomes  a  blind  struggle. 
Even  James  Grieve,  the  man  of  iron  will  and  indomi- 
table industry,  was  beaten  at  last  in  the  unequal  con- 
test. The  life  at  the  farm  became  bitter  and  tragic. 
Jenny  grew  more  helpless  and  more  peevish  year  by 
year ;  James  was  not  exactly  unkind  to  her,  but  he 
Qould  not  but  revenge  upon  her  in  some  degree  that 


42  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

ruin  of  his  silent  aniLitions  whicli  her  sickliness  had 
brought  upon  him. 

The  two  sons  greAv  up  in  the  most  depressing  at- 
mosphere conceivable.  Reuben,  Avho  was  to  have  the 
farm,  developed  a  shy  and  hopeless  taciturnity  under 
the  pressure  of  the  family  chagrin  and  privations,  and 
found  his  only  relief  in  the  emotions  and  excitements 
of  Methodism.  Sandy  seemed  at  first  more  fortunate. 
An  opening  was  found  for  him  at  Sheffield,  where 
he  was  apprenticed  to  a  rope-maker,  a  cousin  of  his 
mother's.  This  man  died  before  Sandy  was  more  than 
halfway  through  his  time,  and  the  youth  went  through 
a  period  of  hardship  and  hand-to-mouth  living  which 
ended  at  last  in  the  usual  tramp  to  London.  Here, 
after  a  period  of  semi-starvation,  he  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  get  work  at  his  own  trade,  and  finally  drifted 
into  carpentering  and  cabinet-making.  The  begin- 
nings of  this  new  line  of  life  were  incredibly  difficult, 
owing  to  the  jealousy  of  his  fellow-workmen,  who  had 
properly  served  their  time  to  the  trade,  and  did  not 
see  why  an  interloper  from  another  trade,  without 
qualifications,  should  be  allowed  to  take  the  bread  out 
of  their  moiiths.  One  of  Sandy's  first  successes  was 
in  what  was  called  a  ^shop-meeting,'  a  gathering  of 
all  the  employes  of  the  firm  he  worked  for,  before 
whom  the  North-countryman  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to 
earn  his  bread.  The  tall,  finely  grown,  famished-look- 
ing lad  spoke  with  a  natural  eloquence,  and  here  and 
there  with  a  Biblical  force  of  phrase — the  inheritance 
of  his  Scotch  blood  and  training — Avhich  astonished 
and  melted  most  of  his  hearers.  He  was  afterwards 
let  alone,  and  even  taught  by  the  men  about  him,  in 
return  for  'drinks,'  which  swallowed  up  sometimes  as 
much  as  a  third  of  his  wages. 

After  two  or  three  years  he  was  fully  master  of  his 
trade,  an  admirable  workman,  and  a  keen  politician  to 


ruxr.  IV  CHILDHOOD  43 

boot.  All  this  time  he  had  spent  his  evenings  in  self- 
oflueation,  buying  books  with  every  spare  penny,  anrl 
turning  specially  to  science  and  mathematics.  His 
abilities  presently  drew  the  attention  of  the  heads  of 
the  Shoreditch  firm  lor  which  he  worked,  and  when 
the  post  of  a  foreman  in  a  West-end  shop,  in  which 
they  were  largely  interested,  fell  vacant,  it  was  their 
influence  which  put  Sandy  Grieve  into  the  Avell-paid 
and  coveted  post.  He  could  hardly  believe  his  own 
good  fortune.  The  letter  in  which  he  announced  it  to 
his  father  reached  the  farm  just  as  the  last  phase  of 
his  mother's  long  martyrdom  was  developing.  The 
pair,  already  old — James  with  work  and  anxiety,  his 
wife  with  sickness — read  it  together.  They  shut  it 
up  without  a  word.  Its  tone  of  jubilant  hope  seemed 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  or  seemed  rather  to 
make  their  own  narrowing  prospects  look  more  nar- 
row, and  the  approach  of  the  King  of  Terrors  more 
black  and  relentless,  than  before.  Jenny  lay  back  on 
her  poor  bed  with  the  teai'S  of  a  dumb  self-pity  run- 
ning down  her  cheeks,  and  James's  only  answer  to  it 
was  conveyed  in  a  brief  summons  to  Sandy  to  come 
and  see  his  mother  before  the  end.  The  prosperous 
son,  broadened  out  of  knowledge  almost  by  good  feed- 
ing and  good  clothes,  arrived.  He  brought  money, 
which  was  acce])ted  without  much  thanks ;  but  his 
mother  treated  h'un  almost  as  a  stranger,  and  the  dour 
James,  while  not  unwilling  to  draw  out  his  account  of 
himself,  would  look  him  u]i  and  down  from  under  his 
bushy  grey  eyebrows,  and  often  interpose  with  some 
sarcasm  on  his  '  foine '  ways  of  speaking,  or  his  '  gen- 
'leman's  cloos.'  Sandy  was  ill  at  ease.  He  was  really 
anxious  to  help,  and  his  heart  was  touched  by  his 
mother's  state ;  but  perhaps  there  was  a  strain  of  self- 
importance  in  his  manner,  a  half-conscious  inclination 
to  thank  God  that  his  life  was  not  to  be  as  theirs, 


44  THE    HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

which  came  out  in  spite  of  him,  and  dug  a  gulf  be- 
tween him  and  them.  Only  his  brother  Keuben,  dull, 
pious,  affectionate  Reuben,  took  to  him,  and  showed 
that  patient  and  wondering  admiration  of  the  younger's 
cleverness,  which  probably  Sandy  had  reckoned  on 
as  his  right  from  his  parents  also. 

On  the  last  evening  of  his  stay — he  had  luckily 
been  able  to  make  his  coming  coincide  with  an  Easter 
three  days'  holiday — he  was  sitting  beside  his  mother 
in  the  dusk,  thinking,  with  a  relief  which  every  now 
and  then  roused  in  him  a  pang  of  shame,  that  in  four- 
teen or  fifteen  more  hours  he  should  be  back  in  Lon- 
don, in  the  world  which  made  much  of  him  and  knew 
what  a  smart  fellow  he  was,  when  his  mother  opened 
her  eyes — so  wide  and  blue  they  looked  in  her  pinched, 
death-stricken  face — and  looked  at  him  full. 

' Sandy  ! ' 

'  Yes,  mother  ! '  he  said,  startled — for  he  had  been 
sunk  in  his  own  thoughts — and  laying  his  hand  on 
hers. 

'  You  should  get  a  wife,  Sandy.' 

'  Well,  some  day,  mother,  I  suppose  I  shall,'  he  said, 
with  a  change  of  expression  which  the  twilight  con- 
cealed. 

She  was  silent  a  minute,  then  she  began  again,  slow 
and  feebly,  but  with  a  strange  clearness  of  articulation. 

'  If  she's  sick,  Sandy,  doaii't  grudge  it  her.  Women 
'ud  die  fasster  iv  they  could.' 

The  whole  story  of  the  slow  consuming  bitterness  of 
years  spoke  through  those  fixed  and  filmy  eyes.  Her 
son  gave  a  sudden  irrepressible  sob.  There  was  a  faint 
lightening  in  the  little  wrinkled  face,  and  the  lips  made 
a  movement.  He  kissed  her,  and  in  that  last  moment 
of  consciousness  the  mother  almost  forgave  him  his 
good  clothes  and  his  superior  airs. 

Poor  Sandy  I     Looking  to  his  after  story,  it  seems 


CHAP.  IV  rilTLDTTOdr)  45 

strange  that  any  one  should  ever  have  felt  him  un- 
bearably prosperous.  About  six  months  after  his 
mother's  death  he  married  a  milliner's  assistant,  Avhom 
he  met  first  in  the  pit  of  a  theatre,  and  whom  he  was 
already  courting  Avheu  his  mother  gave  him  the  advice 
recorded.  She  was  French,  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  Aries,  and  of  course  a  Catholic,  She  had  come  to 
London  originally  as  lady's-maid  to  a  Kussian  family 
settled  at  Nice.  Sliortly  after  their  arrival,  her  mas- 
ter shot  his  young  wife  for  a  supposed  intrigue,  and 
then  put  an  end  to  himself.  Xaturally  the  whole 
establishment  was  scattered,  and  the  pretty  Louise 
Suveret  found  herself  alone,  with  a  few  pounds,  in 
London.  Thanks  to  the  kind  offices  of  the  book-keeper 
in  the  hotel  where  they  had  been  staying,  she  had 
been  introduced  to  a  milliner  of  repute  in  the  Bond 
Street  region,  and  the  results  of  a  trial  given  her,  in 
which  her  natural  Frenchwoman's  gift  and  her  acquired 
skill  came  out  triumphant,  led  to  her  being  perma- 
nently engaged.  Thenceforward  her  good  spirits — 
which  had  been  temporarily  depressed,  not  so  much 
by  her  mistress's  tragic  ending  as  by  her  own  unex- 
pected discomfort — reappeared  in  all  their  native  exu- 
berance, and  she  proceeded  to  enjoy  London.  She 
defended  herself  first  against  the  friendly  book-keeper, 
who  became  troublesome,  and  had  to  be  treated  with 
the  most  decided  ingratitude.  Then  she  gradually 
built  herself  up  a  store  of  clothes  of  the  utmost  ele- 
gance, which  were  the  hopeless  envy  of  the  other  girls 
employed  at  Madame  Catherine's.  And,  finally,  she 
looked  aboi;t  for  serviceable  acquaintances. 

One  night,  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  while 
'The  Lady  of  Lyons'  was  going  on,  Sandy  Grieve 
found  himself  next  to  a  dazzling  creature,  with  fine 
black  eyes,  the  smooth  olive  skin  of  the  South,  white 
teeth,  and  small  dimpled  Imuds,  hardly  spoilt  at  all  by 


46  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

her  trade.  She  had  with  her  a  plain  girl-companion, 
and  her  manner,  though  conscious  and  provocative, 
had  that  haughtiness,  that  implied  readiness  to  take 
offence,  which  is  the  grisette's  substitute  for  breeding. 
She  was,  however,  affable  to  Sandy,  whose  broad 
shoulders  and  handsome,  well-to-do  air  attracted  her 
attention.  She  allowed  him  to  get  her  a  programme, 
to  beguile  her  into  conversation,  and,  finally,  to  offer 
her  a  cup  of  coffee.  Afterwards  he  escorted  the  two 
to  the  door  of  their  lodging,  in  one  of  the  streets  off 
Theobald's  Road,  and  walked  home  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment which  astonished  him. 

This  happened  immediately  before  his  visit  to  the 
farm  and  his  mother's  death.  During  the  six  months 
after  that  event  Sandy  knew  the  'joy  of  eventful  living.' 
He  was  establishing  his  own  business  position,  and  he 
was  courting  Louise  Sviveret  with  alternations  of  de- 
spair and  flattered  passion,  which  stirred  the  now  burly, 
full-blooded  Xorth-countryman  to  his  depths.  She  let 
him  escort  her  to  her  work  in  the  morning  and  take 
her  home  in  the  evening,  and  she  allowed  him  to  give 
her  as  many  presents  of  gloves,  ribbons,  bonbons — for 
which  last  she  had  a  childish  passion — and  the  like, 
as  he  pleased.  But  when  he  pressed  her  to  marry  him 
she  generally  laughed  at  him.  She  was,  in  reality, 
observing  her  world,  calculating  her  chances,  and  she 
had  several  other  strings  to  her  bow,  as  Sandy 
shrewdly  suspected,  though  she  never  allowed  his 
jealousy  any  information  to  feed  upon.  It  was  sim- 
ply owing  to  the  failure  of  the  most  promising  of 
these  other  strings — a  failure  which  roused  in  Louise 
one  of  those  white  heats  of  passion  which  made  the 
chief  flaw  in  her  organisation,  viewed  as  a  pleasure- 
procuring  machine — that  Sandy  found  his  opportunity. 
In  a  moment  of  mortal  chagrin  and  outraged  vanity 
she  consented  to  marry  him,  and  three  weeks  after- 


CHAF.  IV  CHILDHOOD  47 

wards  he  was  the  blissful  owner  uf  the  black  eyes,  the 
small  hands,  the  quick  tongue,  and  the  seductive 
chiffona  he  had  so  long  admired  more  or  less  at  a 
distance. 

Their  marriage  lasted  six  years.  At  first  Louise 
found  some  pleasure  in  arranging  the  little  house 
Sandy  had  taken  for  her  in  a  new  suburb,  and  in  mak- 
ing, wearing,  and  altering  the  additional  gowns  which 
their  joint  earnings — for  she  still  worked  intermit- 
tently at  her  trade — allowed  her  to  enjoy.  After  the 
first  infatuation  was  a  little  cooled,  Sandy  discovered 
in  her  a  paganism  so  unblushing  that  his  own  Scotch 
and  Puritan  instincts  reacted  in  a  sort  of  superstitious 
fear.  It  seemed  impossible  that  God  Almighty  should 
long  allow  Himself  to  be  flouted  as  Louise  flouted 
Him.  He  found  also  that  the  sense  of  truth  was 
almost  non-existent  in  her,  and  her  vanity,  her  greed 
of  dress  and  admiration,  was  so  consuming,  so  frenzied, 
that  his  only  hope  of  a  peaceful  life — as  he  quickly 
realised — lay  in  ministering  to  it.  Her  will  soon  got 
the  upper  hand,  and  he  sank  into  the  patient  servant 
of  her  pleasures,  snatching  feverishly  at  all  she  gave 
him  in  return  with  the  instinct  of  a  man  who,  having 
sold  his  soul,  is  determined  at  least  to  get  the  last 
farthing  he  can  of  the  price. 

They  had  two  children  in  four  years — David  Suveret 
and  Louise  Stephanie.  Louise  resented  the  advent  of 
the  second  so  intensely  that  poor  Sandy  became  con- 
scious, before  the  child  appeared,  of  a  fatal  and  apall- 
ing  change  in  her  relation  to  him.  She  had  been 
proud  of  her  first-born — an  unusually  handsome  and 
precocious  child — and  had  taken  pleasure  in  dressing 
it  and  parading  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  other 
mothers  in  their  terrace,  all  of  whom  she  passionately 
despised.  But  Louie  nearly  died  of  neglect,  and  the 
two  years  that  followed  her  birth  were  black  indeed 


48  THE  HISTORY  OF  BA^'ID  GRIEVE        book  i 

for  Sandy.  His  ^vUe,  he  knew,  had  begun  to  hate 
him ;  in  business  his  energies  failed  him,  and  his 
employers  cooled  towards  him  as  he  grew  visibly  less 
pushing  and  inventive.  The  little  household  got 
deeper  and  deeper  into  debt,  and  towards  the  end  of 
the  time  Louise  would  sometimes  spend  the  whole 
day  away  from  home  without  a  word  of  explanation. 
So  great  was  his  nervous  terror — strong,  broad  fellow 
that  he  was — of  that  pent-up  fury  in  her,  which  a 
touch  might  have  unloosed,  that  he  never  questioned 
her.  At  last  the  inevitable  end  came.  He  got  home 
one  summer  evening  to  tind  the  house  empty  and  ran- 
sacked, the  children — little  things  of  five  and  two — 
sitting  crying  in  the  desolate  kitchen,  and  a  crowd  of 
loud-voiced,  indignant  neighbours  round  the  door. 
To  look  for  her  would  have  been  absurd.  Louise  was 
much  too  clever  to  disappear  and  leave  traces  behind. 
Besides,  he  had  no  wish  to  find  her.  The  hereditary 
self  in  him  accepted  his  disaster  as  representing  the 
natural  retribution  which  the  canny  Divine  vengeance 
keeps  in  store  for  those  who  take  to  themselves  wives 
of  the  daughters  of  Heth.  And  there  was  the  sense, 
too,  of  emerging  from  something  unclean,  of  recover- 
ing his  manhood. 

He  took  his  two  children  and  went  to  lodgings  in  a 
decent  street  near  the  Gray's  Inn  Road.  There  for  a 
year  things  went  fairly  well  with  him.  His  boy  and 
girl,  whom  he  paid  a  neighbour  to  look  after  during  the 
day,  made  something  to  come  home  to.  As  he  helped 
the  boy,  who  was  already  at  school,  with  his  lesson 
for  the  next  day,  or  fed  Louie,  perched  on  his  knee, 
with  the  bits  from  his  plate  demanded  by  her  covetous 
eyes  and  open  mouth,  he  got  back,  little  by  little,  his 
self-respect.  He  returned,  too,  in  the  evenings  to  some 
of  his  old  pursuits,  joined  a  Radical  club  near,  and  some 
science  lectures.     He  was  aged  and  much  more  silent 


CHAP.  IV  flllLDllOOD  49 

than  of  yore,  but  not  unhappy  ;  liis  employers,  too, 
feelino;  that  theiv  man  had  someliow  recovered  himself, 
and  hearing  something  of  his  history,  were  sorry  for 
him,  and  showed  it. 

Then  one  autumn  evening  a  constable  knocked  at 
his  door,  and,  coming  in  upon  the  astonished  group  of 
father  and  cliildren,  produced  from  his  pocket  a  soaked 
and  tattered  letter,  and  showing  Sandy  the  address, 
asked  if  it  was  for  him.  Sandy,  on  seeing  it,  stood  up, 
put  down  Louie,  who,  half  inidressed,  had  been  having 
a  ride  on  his  knee,  and  asked  his  visitor  to  come  out  on 
to  the  landing.  There  he  read  the  letter  under  the 
gas-lamp,  and  put  it  deliberately  into  his  pocket. 

*  Where  is  she  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  In  Lambeth  mortuary,'  said  the  man  briefly — 
•  picked  up  two  hours  ago.  Nothing  else  found  on  her 
but  this.' 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Sandy  stood  by  a  slab  in 
the  mortuary,  and,  drawing  back  a  sheet  which  covered 
the  burden  on  it,  stood  face  to  face  with  his  dead  wife. 
The  black  brows  were  drawn,  the  small  hands  clenched. 
What  struck  Samly  with  peculiar  liorror  was  that  one 
delicate  wrist  was  broken,  having  probably  struck 
something  in  falling.  She — who  in  life  had  rebelled 
so  hotly  against  the  least  shadow  of  physical  pain ! 
Thanks  to  the  bandage  which  had  been  passed  round 
it,  the  face  was  not  much  altered.  She  could  not  have 
been  long  in  the  water.      Probably  about  the  time 

when  he  was  walking  home  from  work,  she He 

felt  himself  suffocating — the  bare  whitewashed  walls 
grew  dim  and  wavering. 

The  letter  found  upon  her  was  the  strangest  appeal 
to  his  pity.  Her  seducer  had  apparently  left  her ;  she 
was  in  dire  straits,  and  there  was,  it  seemed,  no  one 
but  Sandy  in  all  London  on  whose  compassion  she 
could  throw    herself.     She  asked  him.  calloush',  for 

VOL.  I  E 


50  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

money  to  take  her  back  to  some  Nice  relations.  They 
need  only  know  what  she  chose  to  tell  them,  as  she 
calmly  pointed  out,  and,  once  in  Nice,  she  could  make 
a  living.  She  would  like  to  see  her  children,  she  said, 
before  she  left,  but  she  supposed  he  would  have  to 
settle  that.  How  had  she  got  his  address  ?  From  his 
place  of  business  probably,  in  some  roundabout  way. 

Then  Avhat  had  happened?  Had  she  been  seized 
with  a  sudden  persuasion  that  he  would  not  answer, 
that  it  was  all  useless  trouble ;  and  in  one  of  those 
accesses  of  blind  rage  by  which  her  clear,  sharp  brain- 
life  was  at  all  times  apt  to  be  disturbed,  had  she  rushed 
out  to  end  it  all  at  once  and  for  ever  ?  It  made  him 
forgive  her  that  she  could  have  destroyed  herself — 
could  have  faced  that  awful  plunge — that  icy  Avater — 
that  death-struggle  for  breath.  He  gauged  the  misery 
she  must  have  gone  through  by  what  he  knew  of  her 
sensuous  love  for  comfort,  for  bten-etre.  He  saw  her 
again  as  she  had  been  that  night  at  the  theatre  when 
they  first  met, — the  little  crisp  black  curls  on  the 
temples,  the  dazzling  eyes,  the  artificial  pearls  round 
the  neck,  the  slight  traces  of  powder  and  rouge  on 
brow  and  cheek,  which  made  her  all  the  more  attrac- 
tive and  tempting  to  his  man's  eye — the  pretty  foot, 
which  he  first  noticed  as  she  stepped  from  the  thresh- 
old of  the  theatre  into  the  street.  Nature  had  made 
all  that,  to  bring  her  work  to  this  grim  bed  at  last ! 

He  himself  lived  eighteen  months  afterwards.  His 
acquaintances  never  dreamt  of  connecting  his  death 
with  his  wife's,  and  the  connection,  if  it  existed,  would 
have  been  difficult  to  trace.  Still,  if  little  David  could 
have  put  his  experiences  at  this  time  into  words,  they 
might  have  thrown  some  light  on  an  event  which  was 
certainly  a  surprise  to  the  small  world  which  took  an 
interest  in  Sandy  Grieve. 

There    was   a   certain    sound     which    remained   all 


CHAP.  IV  CHILDHOOD  61 

through  his  life  firmly  fixed  in  David's  memory,  and 
which  he  never  thought  of  without  a  sense  of  desola- 
tion, a  shiver  of  sick  dismay,  such  as  belonged  to  no 
other  association  whatever.  It  was  the  sound  of  a 
long  sigh,  brought  up,  as  it  seemed,  from  the  very 
depths  of  being,  and  often,  often  repeated.  The 
thousrht  of  it  brought  with  it  a  vision  of  a  small  bare 
room  at  night,  with  two  iron  bedsteads,  one  for  Louie, 
one  for  himself  and  his  father;  a  bit  of  smouldering 
fire  in  a  tiny  grate,  and  beside  it  a  man's  figure  bowed 
over  the  warnath,  thrown  out  dark  against  the  distem- 
pered -wall,  and  sitting  on  there  hour  after  hour ;  of  a 
child,  wakened  intermittently  by  the  light,  and  tor- 
mented by  the  recurrent  sound,  till  it  had  once  more 
burrowed  into  the  bed-clothes  deep  enough  to  shut  out 
everything  but  sleep.  All  these  memories  belonged 
to  the  time  immediately  following  on  Louise's  suicide. 
Probably,  during  the  interval  between  his  wife's  death 
and  his  own,  Sandy  suffered  severely  from  the  effects 
of  strong  nervous  shock,  coupled  with  a  certain  growth 
of  religious  melancholy,  the  conditions  for  which  are 
rarely  wanting  in  the  true  Calvinist  blood.  Owing  to 
the  privations  and  exposure  of  his  early  manhood,  too, 
it  is  possible  that  he  was  never  in  reality  the  strong 
man  he  looked.  At  any  rate,  his  fight  for  his  life  when 
it  came  was  a  singularly  weak  one.  The  second  winter 
after  Louise's  death  was  bitterly  cold ;  he  was  over- 
worked, and  often  without  sleep.  One  bleak  east-wind 
day  struck  home.  He  took  to  his  bed  with  a  chill, 
which  turned  to  peritonitis;  the  system  showed  no 
power  of  resistance,  and  he  died. 

On  the  day  but  one  before  he  died,  when  the  mortal 
pain  was  gone,  but  death  was  absolutely  certain,  he 
sent  post-haste  for  his  brother  Reuben.  Reuben  he 
believed  was  married  to  a  decent  woman,  and  to  Reuben 
he  meant  to  commend  his  children. 


52  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

Reuben  arrived,  looking  more  bewildered  and  stupid 
than  ever,  pure  countryman  that  he  was,  in  this  London 
which  he  had  never  seen.  Sandy  looked  at  him  with 
a  deep  inward  dissatisfaction.  But  what  could  he  do  ? 
His  marriage  had  cut  hira  off  from  his  old  friends,  and 
since  its  wreck  he  had  had  no  energy  wherewith  to 
make  new  ones. 

'  I've  never  seen  your  Avife,  Reuben,'  he  said,  when 
they  had  talked  a  while. 

Reuben  was  silent  a  minute,  apparently  collecting 
his  thoughts. 

'  Naw,'  he  said  at  last ;  '  naw.  She  sent  yo  her  luve, 
and  she  hopes  iv  it's  the  Lord's  will  to  tak  yo,  that  it 
all  foind  yo  prepared.' 

He  said  it  like  a  lesson.  A  sort  of  nervous  tremor 
and  shrinking  overspread  Sandy's  face.  He  had  suf- 
fered, so  much  through  religion  during  the  last  few 
months,  that  in  this  final  moment  of  humanity  the 
soul  had  taken  refuge  in  numbness — apathy.  Let  God 
decide.  He  could  think  it  out  no  more;  and  in  this 
vitter  feebleness  his  terrors  of  hell — the  ineradicable 
deposit  of  childhood  and  inheritance — had  passed  away. 
He  gathered  his  forces  for  the  few  human  and  practical 
things  which  remained  to  him  to  do. 

'  Did  she  get  on  comfortable  with  father  ? '  he  asked, 
fixing  Reuben  with  his  eyes,  which  had  the  penetration 
of  death. 

Reuben  looked  discomposed,  and  cleared  his  throat 
once  or  twice. 

'  Wal,  it  warn't  what  yo  may  call  just  coomfortable 
atween  'em.     Naw,  I'll  not  say  it  wor.' 

'  What  was  wrong  ?  '  demanded  Sandy. 

Reuben  fidgeted. 

'  Wal,'  he  said  at  last,  throwing  up  his  head  in  des- 
peration, '  I  spose  a  woman  likes  her  house  to  hersel 
when  she's  fust  married.     He  wor  childish  like,  an 


cHAr.   IV  CIlll.DIKMd)  53 

mighty  trooblesome  times.  An  she's  alius  stirrin', 
an  rootin',  is  Hannah.  I'ddor  fnak  must  look  aloive 
too.' 

The  conflict  in  Jveuben's  mind  between  his  innate 
tiuthfulness  and  his  desire  to  excuse  his  wife  was 
curious  to  see.  Sandy  had  a  vision  of  his  father  sit- 
ting in  his  dotage  by  his  own  hearth,  and  ministered 
to  by  a  daughter-in-law  who  grudged  him  his  years 
and  his  infirmities,  as  he  had  grudged  his  wife  all  the 
troublesome  incidents  of  licr  long  decay.  But  it  only 
affected  him  now  as  it  bore  upon  what  was  still  living 
in  him,  the  one  feeling  whicli  still  survived  amid  the 
Avreck  made  by  circumstance  and  disease. 

'  Will  she  be  kind  to  them  ? '  he  said  sharply,  with  a 
motion  of  the  head  towards  the  children,  first  towards 
David,  who  sat  drooping  on  his  father's  bed,  where 
for  some  ten  or  twelve  hours  now  he  had  remained 
glued,  refusing  to  touch  either  breakfast  or  dinner, 
and  then  towards  Louie,  who  was  on  the  floor  by  the 
fire,  with  her  rag  dolls,  which  she  was  dressing  up 
with  smiles  and  chatter  in  a  strange  variety  of  finery. 
'  If  not,  she  shan't  have  'em.     There's  time  yet.' 

But  the  grey  hue  was  already  on  his  cheek,  his  feet 
were  already  cold.  The  nurse  in  the  far  corner  of 
the  room,  looking  up  as  he  spoke,  gave  him  mentally 
'an  hour  or  two.' 

Eeubeu  flushed  and  sat  bolt  upright,  his  gnarled 
and  wrinkled  hands  trembling  on  his  knees. 

'She  shall  be  kind  to  'em,'  he  said  with  energy. 
'Gie  em  to  us,  Sandy.  You  wouldna  send  your  childer 
to  strangers  ?  ' 

The  clannish  instinct  in  Sandy  responded.  Besides, 
in  spite  of  his  last  assertion,  he  knew  very  well  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

'There's  money,'  he  said  slowly.  'She'll  not  need 
to  stint  them  of  anything.     This  is  a  poor  place,'  for 


54  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

at  the  "\vord  'money'  he  noticed  that  Reuben's  eyes 
travelled  with  an  awakening  shrewdness  over  the 
barely  furnished  room ;  '  but  it  was  the  debts  first, 
and  then  I  had  to  put  by  for  the  children.  iSTone  of 
the  shop-folk  or  the  fellows  at  the  club  ever  came 
here.  We  lived  as  we  liked.  There's  an  insurance, 
and  there's  some  savings,  and  there's  some  commission 
money  owing  from  the  firm,  and  there's  a  bit  invest- 
ment Mr.  Gurney  (naming  the  head  partner)  helped 
me  into  last  year.  There's  altogether  about  six  hun- 
dred pound.  .  You'll  get  the  interest  of  it  for  the 
children ;  it'll  go  into  Gurneys',  and  they'll  give  five 
per  cent,  for  it.  Mr,  Gurney's  been  very  kind.  He 
came  here  yesterday,  and  he's  got  it  all.  You  go  to 
him.' 

He  stopped  for  weakness.  Reuben's  eyes  were 
round.  Six  hundred  pounds  !  Who'd  have  thought  it 
of  Sandy  ? — after  that  bad  lot  of  a  wife,  and  he  not 
thirty  ! 

'  And  what  d'  yo  want  Davy  to  be,  Sandy  ? ' 

'  You  must  settle/  said  the  father,  with  a  long  sigh. 
'  Depends  on  him — what  he  turns  to.  If  he  wants  to 
farm,  he  can  learn  with  you,  and  put  in  his  money 
when  he  sees  an  opening.  For  the  bit  farms  in  our 
part  there'd  be  enough.  But  I'm  feeart'  (the  old 
Derbyshire  word  slipped  out  unawares)  'he'll  not  stay 
in  the  country.  He's  too  sharp,  and  you  mustn't 
force  him.  If  you  see  he's  not  the  farming  sort, 
when  he's  thirteen  or  fourteen  or  so,  take  Mr.  Gur- 
ney's advice,  and  bind  him  to  a  trade.  Mr.  Gurney 
'11  pay  the  premiums  for  him  and  he  can  have  the 
balance  of  the  money — for  I've  left  him  to  manage  it 
all,  for  himself  and  Louie  too — when  he's  fit  to  set  up 
for  himself. — You  and  Hannah  '11  deal  honest  wi 
'em  ? ' 

The  question  was  unexpected,  and  as  he  put  it  with 


riiAP.  IV  CIIILT)Il«»r)I)  65 

a  startling  energy  the  dying  man  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  looked  sharply  at  his  brother. 

'D'  yo  tliink  I'd  cheat  yo,  or  your  childor,  Sandy  ?  ' 
cried  Keuben,  flushing  and  pricked  to  the  heart. 

Sandy  sank  back  again,  his  sudden  qualm  appeased. 
'  Xo,'  he  said,  his  thoughts  returning  painfully  to  his 
son.  'I'm  feeart  he'll  not  stay  wi  j-ou.  He's  cleverer 
than  I  ever  was,  and  I  was  the  cleverest  of  us  all.' 

The  words  had  in  them  a  whole  epic  of  human  fate. 
Under  the  prick  of  them  Keuben  found  a  tongue,  not 
now  for  his  wife,  but  for  himself. 

'  It's  not  cliverness  as  ull  help  yo  now,  Sandy,  wi 
your  Mjiaker !  and  yo  feeace  t'  feeace  v>-i  'un ! '  he 
cried.  '  It's  nowt  but  satisfacshun  by  t'  blood  o' 
Jesus ! ' 

Sandy  made  no  answer,  unless,  indeed,  the  poor 
heart  within  made  its  last  cry  of  agony  to  heaven  at 
the  words.  The  sinews  of  the  spiritual  as  well  as  the 
l^hysical  man  were  all  spent  and  useless. 

'Davy,'  he  called  presently.  The  child,  who  had 
been  sitting  motionless  during  this  talk  watching  his 
father,  slid  along  the  bed  with  alacrity,  and  tucking 
his  little  legs  and  feet  well  away  from  Sandy's  long 
frame,  put  his  head  down  on  the  pillow.  His  father 
turned  his  eyes  to  him,  and  Avith  a  solemn,  lingering 
gaze  took  in  the  childish  face,  the  thick,  tumbled  hair, 
the  expression,  so  piteous,  yet  so  intelligent.  Then 
he  put  up  his  own  large  hand,  and  took  both  the  boy's 
into  its  cold  and  feeble  grasp.  His  eyelids  fell,  and 
the  breathing  changed.  The  nurse  hurriedly  rose, 
lifted  up  Louie  from  her  toys,  and  put  her  on  the  bed 
beside  him.  The  child,  disturbed  in  her  play  and 
frightened  by  she  knew  not  what,  set  up  a  sudden 
cry.  A  tremor  seemed  to  pass  through  the  shut  lids 
at  the  sound,  a  slight  compression  of  pain  appeared  in 
the  grey  lips.     It  was  Sandy  Grieve's  last  sign  of  life. 


56  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

Reuben  Grieve  remembered  well  the  letter  he  had 
written  to  his  wife,  with  infinite  difficulty,  from  be- 
side his  brother's  dead  body.  He  told  her  that  he 
was  bringing  the  children  back  with  him.  The  poor 
bairns  had  got  nobody  in  the  world  to  look  to  but 
their  uncle  and  aunt.  And  they  would  not  cost  Han- 
nah a  penny.  For  Mr.  Gurney  woixld  pay  thirty 
pounds  a  year  for  their  keep  and  bringing  up. 

With  what  care  and  labour  his  clumsy  fingers  had 
penned  the  last  sentence  so  that  Hannah  might  read 
it  plain  ! 

Afterwards  he  brought  the  children  home.  As  he 
drove  his  light  cart  up  the  rough  and  lonely  road  to 
Xeedham  Farm,  Louie  cried  with  the  cold  and  the 
dark,  and  Davy,  with  his  hands  tucked  between  his 
knees,  grew  ever  move  and  more  silent,  his  restless 
little  head  turning  perpetually  from  side  to  side,  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  discover  something  of  the 
strange,  new  world  to  Avhich  he  had  been  brought, 
through  the  gloom  of  the  February  evening. 

Then  at  the  sound  of  wheels  outside  in  the  lane,  the 
back  door  of  the  farm  was  opened,  and  a  dark  figure 
stood  on  the  threshold. 

'  Yo're  late,'  Reuben  heard.  It  was  Hannah's  pierc- 
ing voice  that  spoke.  'Bring  'em  into  t'  back  kitchen, 
an  let  'em  take  their  shoes  off  afore  they  coom  ony 
further.' 

By  Avhich  Reuben  knew  that  it  had  been  scrubbing- 
day,  and  that  her  flagstones  were  more  in  Hannah's 
mind  than  the  guests  he  had  brought  her.  He  obeyed, 
and  then  the  barefooted  trio  entered  the  front  kitchen 
together.  Hannah  came  forward  and  looked  at  the 
children — at  David  white  and  blinking — at  the  four- 
year-old  Louie,  bundled  up  in  an  old  shawl,  which 
dragged  on  the  ground  behind  her,  and  staring  wildly 


CHAP.  IV  rHTLDnooi)  57 

round  her  at  the  old  low-roofed  kitchen  with  the  terror 
of  the  trapped  bird. 

'Hannah,  they're  varra  cold/  said  Keuben — 'ha  yo 
got  sunmiat  hot  ?  ' 

'Theer'll  be  supper  bime-by,' Hannah  replied  with 
decision.  '  I've  naw  time  scrubbin-days  to  be  foolin 
about  wi  things  out  o'  hours.  I've  nobbut  just  got 
straight  an  cleaned  mysel.  They  can  sit  down  an 
warm  tlieirsels.  I  conno  say  they  feature  ony  of  yor 
belongins,  Reuben.'  And  she  went  to  put  Louie  on 
the  settle  by  the  fire.  I^ut  as  the  tall  woman  in  black 
approached  her,  the  child  hit  out  madly  with  her  small 
fists  and  burst  into  a  loud  howl  of  crying. 

'  Get  away,  nasty  woman  !  Nasty  woman — ugly 
woman  !  Take  me  away — I  want  my  daddy, — I  want 
my  daddy.' 

And  she  threw  herself  kicking  on  the  floor,  while, 
to  Hannah's  exasperation,  a  piece  of  crumbling  bun 
she  had  been  holding  tight  in  her  sticky  little  hand 
escaped  and  littered  all  the  new-washed  stones. 

'Tak  yor  niece  oop,  Reuben,  an  mak  her  behave' — 
the  mistress  of  the  house  commanded  angrily.  '  She'll 
want  a  stic^k  takken  to  her,  soon,  I  can  see.' 

Reuben  obeyed  so  far  as  he  could,  but  Louie's  shrieks 
only  ceased  when,  by  the  combined  efforts  of  husband 
and  wife,  she  had  been  put  to  bed,  so  exhausted  with 
rage,  excitement,  and  the  journey,  that  sleep  mercifully 
took  possession  of  her  just  after  she  had  performed 
the  crowning  feat  of  knocking  the  tea  and  bread  and 
butter  Reuben  brought  her  out  of  her  uncle's  hand 
and  all  over  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  David  sat  perfectly  still  in  a  chair 
against  the  wall,  beside  the  old  clock,  and  stared  about 
him  ;  at  the  hams  and  bunches  of  dried  herbs  hanging 
from  the  ceiling ;  at  the  chiffonnier,  with  its  red  baize 
doors  under  a  brass  trellis-work ;  at  the  high  wooden 


58  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

settle,  the  framed  funeral  cards,  and  the  two  or  three 
coloured  prints,  now  brown  with  age,  which  Eeuben 
had  liung  up  twenty  years  before,  to  celebrate  his 
marriage.  Hannah  was  propitiated  by  the  boy's 
silence,  and  as  she  got  supper  ready  she  once  or  twice 
noticed  his  fine  black  eyes  and  his  curly  hair. 

'  Yo  can  coom  an  get  yor  supper,'  she  said  to  him, 
more  graciously  than  she  had  spoken  yet.  '  It's  a 
mussy  yo  doan't  goo  shrikin  like  your  sister.' 

'  Thank  j'ou,  ma'am,'  said  the  little  fellow,  with  a 
townsman's  politeness,  hardly  understanding,  however, 
a  word  of  her  north-country  dialect — '  I'm  not  hungry. 
— You've  got  a  picture  of  General  Washington  there, 
ma'am ; '  and,  raising  a  small  hand  trembling  with 
nervousness  and  fatigue,  he  pointed  to  one  of  the 
prints  opposite. 

'"Wal,  I  niver,'  said  Hannah,  with  a  stare  of  as- 
tonishment.    'Yo're  a  quare  lot — the  two  o'  yer.' 

One  thing  more  Reuben  remembered  with  some 
vividness  in  connection  with  the  children's  arrival. 
When  they  were  both  at  last  asleep — Louie  in  an  un- 
used room  at  the  back,  on  an  old  wooden  bedstead, 
which  stood  solitary  in  a  wilderness  of  bare  boards  ; 
David  in  a  sort  of  cupboard  off  the  landing,  which  got 
most  of  its  light  and  air  from  a  wooden  trellis-work, 
overlooking  the  staircase — Hannah  said  abruptly  to 
her  husband,  as  they  two  were  going  to  bed,  'When 
ull  Mr.  Gurney  pay  that  money  ? ' 

'  Twice  a  year — so  his  clerk  towd  me — Christmas  an 
Midsummer.  Praps  we  shan't  want  to  use  it  aAv, 
Hannah ;  praps  we  might  save  soom  on  it  for  t'  chil- 
der.  Their  keep,  iv  yo  feed  em  on  paaritch,  is  nobbut 
a  fleabite,  and  they'n  got  a  good  stock  o'  cloos,  Sandy's 
nurse  towd  me.' 

He  looked  anxiously  at    Hannah.     In   his   inmost 


(iiAP.  IV  ciin.DnooT)  59 

heart  there  was  a  passionate  wish  to  do  his  duty  to 
Sandy's  orplians,  fij,diting  with  a  dread  of  his  wife, 
which  was  the  fruit  of  lung  habit  and  constitutional 
weakness. 

Hannah  faced  round  upon  him.  It  was  Reuben's 
misfortune  that  dignity  was  at  all  times  impossible 
to  him.  Now,  as  he  sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
stocking-feet,  flushed  with  the  exertion  of  pulling  ott" 
his  heavy  boots,  the  light  of  the  tallow  candle  falling 
on  his  weak  eyes  with  their  red  rims,  on  his  large  open 
mouth  with  the  conspicuous  gap  in  its  front  teeth,  and 
his  stubbly  hair,  he  was  more  than  usually  grotesque. 
•  As  slamp  an  wobbly  as  an  owd  corn-boggart,'  so  his 
neighbours  described  him  when  they  wished  to  be  dis- 
respectful, and  the  simile  fitted  very  closely  with  the 
dishevelled,  disjointed  appearance  which  was  at  all 
times  characteristic  of  him,  Sundays  or  weekdays. 
No  one  studying  the  pair,  especially  at  such  a  moment 
as  this — the  malaise  of  the  husband — the  wife  tower- 
ing above  him,  her  grey  hair  hanging  loose  round  her 
black  brows  and  sallow  face  instinct  with  a  rugged 
and  indomitable  energy — could  have  doubted  in  whose 
hands  lay  the  government  of  Xeedham  Farm. 

'  I'll  thank  yo  not  to  talk  nonsense,  Reuben  Grieve,' 
said  his  Avife  sharply.  'D'yo  think  they're  m?/ flesh 
an  blood,  thoose  childer  ?  An  who'll  ha  to  do  for  em 
but  me,  I  should  loike  to  know  ?  "\Mio"ll  ha  to  put  up 
wi  their  messin  an  their  dirt  but  me?  Twenty  year 
ha  yo  an  I  been  married,  Reuben,  an  niver  till  this 
neet  did  I  ha  to  goo  down  on  my  knees  an  sweep 
oo})  after  scrubbin-day !  Iv  I'm  to  be  moidered  Avi 
em,  I'll  be  paid  for  't.  Soa  I  let  yo  know — it's  little 
enough.' 

And  Hannah  took  her  payment.  As  he  sat  in  the 
sun,  looking  back  on  the  last  seven  years,  with  a  slow 


60  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        hook  i 

and  dreaming  mind,  Reuben  recognised,  using  his  own 
phrases  for  the  matter,  that  the  chihiren's  thirty 
pounds  had  been  the  pivot  of  Hannah's  existence.  He 
was  but  a  small  sheep  farmer,  with  very  scanty  capi- 
tal. By  dint  of  hard  work  and  painful  thrift,  the 
childless  pair  had  earned  a  sufficient  living  in  the  past 
— nay,  even  put  by  a  bit,  if  the  truth  of  Hannah's 
savings-bank  deposits  were  known.  But  every  fluctu- 
ation in  their  small  profits  tried  them  sorely — tried 
Hannah  especially,  Avhose  temper  was  of  the  brooding 
and  grasping  order.  The  certamty  of  Mr.  Gurney's 
cheques  made  them  very  soon  the  most  cheerful  facts 
in  the  farm  life.  On  two  days  in  the  year — the  20th 
of  June  and  the  20th  of  December — Reuben  might  be 
sure  of  finding  his  wife  in  a  good  temper,  and  he  had 
long  shrewdly  suspected,  without  inquiring,  that  Han- 
nah's savings-bank  book,  since  the  children  came,  had 
been  very  pleasant  reading  to  her. 

Reu.ben  fidgeted  uncomfortably  as  he  thought  of 
those  savings.  Certainly  the  children  had  not  cost 
what  was  paid  for  them.  He  began  to  be  oddly  exer- 
cised this  Sunday  morning  on  the  subject  of  the 
porridge  Louie  hated  so  much.  Was  it  his  fault  or 
Hannah's  if  the  friigal  living  which  had  been  the  rule 
for  all  the  remoter  farms  of  the  Peak — nay,  for  the 
whole  north  country — in  his  father's  time,  and  had 
been  made  doubly  binding,  as  it  were,  on  the  dwellers 
in  Xeedham  Farm  by  James  Grieve's  Scotch  blood 
and  habits,  had  survived  under  their  roof,  while  all 
about  them  a  more  luxurious  standard  of  food  and 
comfort  was  beginning  to  obtain  among  their  neigh- 
bours ?  Where  could  you  find  a  finer  set  of  men  than 
the  Berwickshire  hinds,  of  whom  his  father  came,  and 
who  were  reared  on  'parritch'  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end  ? 

And  yet,  all  the  same,  Reuben's  memory  was  full 


CUAI-.  IV  CHILDHOOD  Gl 

this  morning  of  disturbing  pictures  of  a  little  Loudon 
child,  full  of  town  daintiness  and  accustomed  to  the 
spoiling  of  an  indulgent  father,  crying  herself  into  fits 
over  the  new  uni)alatable  food,  refusing  it  day  after 
day,  till  tlie  sharj),  wilful  face  had  grown  pale  and 
pinched  with  famine,  and  caring  no  more  apparently 
for  her  aunt's  beatings  than  she  did  for  the  clumsy 
advances  by  which  her  uncle  would  sometimes  try  to 
propitiate  her.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  beat- 
ing— whenever  lieuben  thouglit  of  it  he  had  a  super- 
stitious way  of  putting  Sandy  out  of  his  mind  as  much 
as  possible.  Many  times  he  had  gone  far  away  from 
the  house  to  avoid  the  sound  of  the  blows  and  shrieks 
he  was  powerless  to  stop. 

Well,  but  what  harm  had  come  of  it  all  ?  Louie 
was  a  strong  lass  now,  if  she  were  a  bit  thin  and  over- 
grown. David  was  as  fine  a  boy  as  anyone  need  wish 
to  see. 

David  ? 

lieuben  gut  up  from  his  seat  at  the  farm  door,  took 
his  pipe  out  of  his  pocket,  and  went  to  hang  over  the 
garden-gate,  that  he  might  unravel  some  very  worry- 
ing thoughts  at  a  greater  distance  from  Hannah. 

The  day  before  he  had  been  overtaken  coming  out 
of  Clough  End  by  Mr.  Ancrum,  the  lame  minister. 
He  and  Grieve  liked  one  another.  If  there  had  been 
intrigues  raised  against  the  minister  within  the  '■  Chris- 
tian Brethren'  congregation,  Eeuben  Grieve  had  taken 
no  part  in  them. 

After  some  general  conversation,  Mr.  Ancrum  sud- 
denly said,  '  Will  you  let  me  have  a  word  with  you, 
Mr.  Grieve,  about  your  nephew  David — if  you'll  not 
think  me  intruding  ?  ' 

'  Say  on,  sir — say  on,'  said  Eeuben  hastily,  but  with 
an  inward  shrinking. 

'  Well,  ]\Ir.  Grieve,  you'ye  got  a  remarkable  boy  there 


62  THE    HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

— a  curious  luid  reuuirkable  boy.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  him  ?  ' 

'Do  Avi  him? — me,  sir?  Wal,  I  doan't  know  as 
I've  iver  thowt  mich  about  it,'  said  Reuben,  bnt  with 
an  agitation  of  manner  that  struck  his  interrogator. 
'He  be  varra  useful  to  me  on  t'  farm,  Mr.  Ancrum. 
Soom  toimes  i'  t'  year  theer's  a  lot  doin,  yo  knaw,  sir, 
even  on  a  bit  place  like  ours,  and  he  ha  gitten  a  good 
schoolin,  he  ha.' 

The  apologetic  incoherence  of  the  little  speech  was 
curious.  Mr.  Ancrum  did  not  exactly  know  how  to 
take  his  man. 

'I  dare  say  he's  iiseful.  But  he's  not  going  to  be 
the  ordinary  labourer,  Mr.  Grieve — he's  made  of  quite 
different  stuff,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  it  will  pay  you 
very  well  to  recognise  it  in  good  time.  That  boy  will 
read  books  now  which  hardly  any  grown  man  of  his 
class — about  here,  at  any  rate — would  be  able  to  read. 
Aye,  and  talk  about  them,  too,  in  a  way  to  astonish 
you ! ' 

'  Yes,  I  know  at  he's  oncommon  cliver  wi  his  books, 
is  Davy,'  Reuben  admitted. 

'  Oh !  it's  not  only  that.  But  he's  got  an  unusual 
brain  and  a  wonderful  memory.  And  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  if  he  were  to  make  nothing  of  them. 
You  say  he's  useful,  but — excuse  me,  Mr.  Grieve — he 
seems  to  me  to  spend  three  parts  of  his  time  in  loafing 
and  desultory  reading.  He  wants  more  teaching — he 
wants  steady  training.  Why  don't  you  send  him  to 
Manchester,'  said  the  minister  boldly,  'and  apprentice 
him  ?     It  costs  money,  no  doubt.' 

And  he  looked  interrogatively  at  Reuben.  Reuben, 
however,  said  nothing.  They  were  toiling  up  the 
steep  road  from  Clough  End  to  the  high  farms  under 
the  Scout,  a  road  which  tried  the  minister's  infirm 
limb  severely ;  otherwise  he  would  have  taken  more 


CHAP.  IV  CHILDHOOD  63 

notice  of  his  companion's  awkward  flush  and  evident 
discomposure. 

'But  it  wouUl  pay  you  in  the  long  run,'  he  said, 
when  they  stoi)ped  to  take  breath ;  '  it  wouhl  be  a 
capital  investment  if  the  boy  lives,  I  promise  you 
th;it,  Mr.  Grieve.  And  he  could  carry  on  his  educa- 
tion there,  too,  a  bit — what  Avith  evening  classes  and 
lectures,  and  the  different  libraries  he  could  get  the 
use  of.  It's  wonderful  how  all  the  facilities  for  work- 
ing-class education  have  grown  in  Manchester  during 
the  last  few  years.' 

*  Aye,  sir — I  spose  they  have — I  spose  they  have,' 
said  Eeuben,  uncomfortably,  and  then  seemed  incapa- 
ble of  carrying  on  the  conversation  any  further.  Mr. 
Ancrum  talked,  but  nothing  more  was  to  be  got  out  of 
the  farmer.  At  last  the  minister  turned  back,  saying, 
as  he  shook  hands,  '  Well,  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of 
any  use.  I  have  a  good  many  friends  in  Manchester. 
I  tell  you  tliat's  a  boy  to  be  proud  of,  Mr.  Grieve,  a 
boy  of  promise,  if  ever  there  was  one.  But  he  wants 
taking  the  right  way.  He's  got  plenty  of  mixed  stuff 
in  him,  bad  and  good.  I  should  feel  it  anxious  work, 
the  next  few  years,  if  he  were  my  boy.' 

Xow  it  was  really  this  talk  which  was  fermenting 
in  Reuben,  and  which,  together  with  the  'rumpus' 
between  Hannah  and  Louie,  had  led  to  his  singularly 
disturbed  state  of  conscience  this  Sunday  morning.  As 
he  stood,  miserably  pulling  at  his  pipe,  the  whole  pros- 
pect of  sloi)ing  iield,  and  steep  distant  moor,  gradually 
vanished  from  his  eyes,  and,  instead,  he  saw  the  same 
London  room  which  David's  memory  held  so  tena- 
ciously— he  saw  Sandy  raising  himself  from  his  death- 
bed with  that  look  of  sudden  distrust — '  Now,  you'll 
deal  honest  wi  'em,  Keuben  ? ' 

Keuben  groaned  in  s])irit.  'A  boy  to  be  proud  of 
indeed.     It  seemed  to  liim,  now  that  he  was  perforce 


04  THE   HTSTOT^Y  OF   DAYTD   GIUEVE        book  i 

made  to  think  about  it,  that  he  had  never  been  easy  in 
his  mind  since  Sandy's  orphans  came  to  the  house. 
On  the  one  hand,  his  wife  had  had  her  way — liow  was 
he  to  prevent  it  ?  On  the  other,  his  religious  sense 
liad  kept  pricking  and  tormenting — like  the  gadfly 
that  it  Avas. 

Who,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  was  to  ask  Hannah  for 
money  to  send  the  boy  to  Manchester  and  a]jprentice 
him  ?  And  who  was  going  to  write  to  Mr.  Gurney 
about  it  without  her  leave  ?  Once  upset  the  system 
of  things  on  which  those  two  half-yearly  cheques 
depended,  how  many  more  of  them  would  be  forth- 
coming? And  how  was  Hannah  going  to  put  up  with 
the  loss  of  them '.'    It  made  Keuben  shiver  to  think  of  it. 

Shouts  from  the  lane  behind.  Reuben  suddenly 
raised  himself  and  made  for  the  gate  at  the  corner  of 
the  farmyard.  He  came  out  upon  the  children,  who 
had  been  to  Sunday  school  at  Clough  End  since  din- 
ner, and  were  now  in  consequence  in  a  state  of  restless 
animal  spirits.  Louie  Avas  swinging  violently  on  the 
gate  which  barred  the  path  on  to  the  moor.  David 
was  shying  stones  at  a  rook's  nest  opposite,  the  clatter 
of  the  outraged  colony  to  Avhich  it  belonged  sounding 
as  music  in  his  ears. 

They  stared  when  they  saw  Reuben  cross  the  road, 
sit  down  on  a  stone  beside  David,  and  take  out  his  pipe. 
David  ceased  throwing,  and  Louie,  crossing  her  feet 
and  steadying  herself  as  she  sat  on  the  topmost  bar 
of  the  gate  by  a  grip  on  either  side,  leant  hard  on  her 
hands  and  watched  her  uncle  in  silence.  When  caught 
unawares  by  their  elders,  these  two  had  always  some- 
thing of  the  air  of  captives  defending  themselves  in  an 
alien  country, 

*Wal,  Davy,  did  tha  have  Mr.  Ancrum  in  school  ?' 
began  Reuben,  affecting  a  brisk  manner,  oddly  unlike 
him. 


niAi-.    IV  (  IIII.DIIOOD  65 

*Kaw.  It  Avor  Brother  A\'iuterbotham  from  Halifax, 
or  soom  sich  name.' 

'  Wor  he  edify  in,  Davy  ? ' 

'  He  wor — lie  wor — a  leatlicr-yed,'  said  David,  with 
sudden  enerj,fy,  and,  taking  uj)  a  stone  again,  he  tlung 
it  at  a  tree  trunk  opposite,  with  a  certain  vindictive- 
ness  as  though  Brother  Winterbotham  was  sitting 
there. 

'  Now,  yo're  not  s[)eaking  as  yo  owt,  Davy,'  said 
Reuben  reprovingly,  as  he  puffed  away  at  liis  pipe  and 
felt  the  pleasantness  of  the  spring  sunshine  Avhich 
streamed  down  into  the  lane  through  the  still  bare 
but  budding  brancdies  of  the  sycamores. 

'  He  u-or  a  leather-yed,'  David  rei)eated  with  em- 
phasis. '  He  said  it  wor  Alexander  fought  t'  battle  o' 
Marathon.' 

Reuben  was  silent  for  a  while.  When  tests  of  this 
kind  were  going,  he  could  but  lie  low.  However, 
David's  answer,  after  a  bit,  suggested  an  ojjeuing  to 
him. 

'  Yo've  a  rare  deal  o'  book-larnin  for  a  farmin  lad, 
Davy.  If  yo  wor  at  a  trade  now,  or  a  mill-hand,  or 
summat  o'  that  soart,  yo'd  ha  noan  so  mich  time  for 
readin  as  yo  ha  now.' 

The  boy  looked  at  him  askance,  with  his  keen  black 
eyes.     His  imcle  puzzled  him. 

*Wal,  I'm  not  a  mill-hand,  onyways,'  he  said,  shortly, 
'  an  I  doan't  mean  to  be.' 

'Noa,  yo're  too  lazy,'  said  Louie  shrilly,  from  the 
top  of  the  gate.  '  Theer's  heaps  o'  boys  no  bigger  nor 
yo,  arns  their  ten  shillins  a  week.' 

'They're  Avelcome,'  said  David,  laconically,  throwing 
another  stone  at  the  water  to  keep  his  hand  in.  For 
some  years  now  the  boy  had  cherished  a  hatred  of  the 
mill-life  on  which  CUuigli  Yau\  and  the  other  small 
towns  and  villages  in  the  neighbourhood  existed.     The 

VOL.  1  r 


66  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

thought  of  the  long  monotonous  hours  at  the  mules  or 
the  looms  was  odious  to  the  lad  whose  joys  lay  in  free 
moorland  wanderings  with  the  sheep,  in  endless  read- 
ing, in  talks  with  'Lias  Dawson. 

'  Wal,  now,  I'm  real  glad  to  heer  yo  say  sich  things, 
Davy,  lad,'  said  Reuben,  with  a  curious  flutter  of  man- 
ner. 'I'm  real  glad.  So  yo  take  to  the  farmin, 
Davy?  Wal,  it's  nateral.  All  yor  forbears — all  on 
em  leastways,  nobbut  yor  feyther — got  their  livin  off 
t'  land.     It  cooms  nateral  to  a  Grieve.' 

The  boy  made  no  answer — did  not  commit  himself 
in  any  way.     He  went  on  absently  throwing  stones. 

'  Why  doan't  he  larn  a  trade  ?  '  demanded  Louie. 
'  Theer's  Harry  Wigson,  he's  gone  to  Manchester  to  be 
prenticed.     He  doan't  goo  loafin  round  aw  day.' 

Her  sharp  wits  disconcerted  Reuben.  He  looked 
anxiously  at  David.  The  boy  coloured  furiously,  and 
cast  an  angry  glance  at  his  sister. 

'Theer's  money  wanted  for  prenticin,'  he  said 
shortly. 

Reuben  felt  a  stab.  Neither  of  the  children  knew 
that  they  possessed  a  penny.  A  blunt  word  of  Han- 
nah's first  of  all,  about  'not  gien  'em  ony  high  noshuns 
o'  theirsels,'  aided  on  Reuben's  side  by  the  natural 
secretiveness  of  the  peasant  in  money  affairs,  had 
effectually  concealed  all  knowledge  of  their  own  share 
in  the  family  finances  from  the  orphans. 

He  reached  out  a  soil-stained  hand,  shaking  already 
wdth  ineii)ient  age,  and  laid  it  on  David's  sleeve. 

'  Art  tha  hankeriu  after  a  trade,  lad  ? '  he  said 
hastily,  nay,  harshly. 

David  looked  at  his  uncle  astonished.  A  hundred 
thoughts  flew  through  the  boy's  mind.  Then  he  raised 
his  head  and  caught  sight  of  the  great  peak  of  Kinder 
Low  iu  tlie  distance,  beyond  the  green  swells  of 
meadow-land, — the  heathery  slopes  running  up  into  its 


CIIA1-.  IV  CHILDHOOD  67 

rocky  breast, — the  black  patch  on  the  brown,  to  the 
left,  which  marked  the  site  of  the  Smitliy. 

'No,'  he  said  decidedly.  'No;  i  can't  say  as  I  am. 
I  like  t'  farmin  well  enough.' 

And  then,  boy-like,  hating  to  be  talked  to  about 
himself,  he  shook  himself  free  of  his  uncle  and  walked 
away,  lleuben  fell  to  his  pipe  again  with  a  beaming 
countenance. 

'  Louie,  my  gell,'  he  said. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  cliild,  not  moving. 

'  Coom  yo  heer,  Louie.' 

She  unwillingly  got  down  and  came  xip  to  him. 

Reuben  put  down  his  pipe,  and  fumbled  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  Out  of  it,  with  difficulty,  he  pro- 
duced a  si.xpence. 

'  Art  tha  partial  to  goodies,  Louie  ? '  he  said,  drop- 
ping his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  holding  up  the 
coin  before  her. 

Louie  nodded,  her  eyes  glistening  at  the  magnitude 
of  the  coin.  Uncle  Reuben  might  be  counted  on  for  a 
certain  number  of  pennies  during  the  year,  but  silver 
Avas  unheard  of. 

'Tak  it  then,  child,  an  welcome.  If  yo  have  a 
sweet  tooth — an  it's  t'  way  wi  moast  gells — I  conno 
see  as  it  can  be  onything  else  but  Providence  as  gave 
it  yo.  So  get  yorsel  soom  biill's-eyes,  Louie,  an — an ' 
— he  looked  a  little  conscious  as  he  slipped  the  coin 
into  her  eager  hand — '  doan't  let  on  ti  your  aunt  I 
She'd  think  mebbe  I  wor  spoilin  your  teeth,  or  sum- 
mat, — an,  Louie  ' — 

Was  Uncle  Reuben  gone  mad  ?  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  as  it  seemed  to  Louie,  he  was  looking  at 
what  she  had  on,  nay,  was  even  taking  up  her  dress 
between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

'  Is  thissen  your  Sunday  frock,  chilt  ? ' 
'Yes,'  said  the  girl,  flushing  scarlet,  'bean't  it  a 
dishclout '! ' 


68  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

And  she  stood  looking  down  at  it  with  passionate 
scorn.  It  Avas  a  worn  and  patched  garment  of  brown 
alpaca,  made  out  of  an  ancient  gown  of  Hannah's. 

'  Wal,  I'm  naw  judge  i'  these  matters,'  said  Reuben, 
dubiously,  drawing  out  his  spectacles.  '  It's  got  naw 
holes  'at  I  can  see,  but  it's  not  varra  smart,  perhaps. 
Satan's  varra  active  wi  gells  on  this  pint  o'  dress — yo 
nam  tak  noatice  o'  that,  Louie — but — listen  heer ' — 

And  he  drew  her  nearer  to  him  by  her  skirt,  look- 
ing cautiously  up  and  down  the  lane  and  across  to  the 
farm. 

'If  I  get  a  good  price  for  t'  wool  this  year — an 
theer's  a  new  merchant  coomin  round,  yan  moor  o'  t' 
buy  in  soart  nor  owd  Croker,  soa  they  say,  I'st  save  yo 
five  shillin  for  a  frock,  chilt.  Yo  can  goo  an  buy  it, 
an  I'st  mak  it  straight  wi  yor  aunt.  But  I  mun  get 
a  good  price,  yo  knov^,  or  your  aunt  ull  be  fearfu'  bad 
to  manage.' 

And  he  gazed  up  at  her  as  though  appealing  to  her 
common  sense  in  the  matter,  and  to  her  understand- 
ing of  both  his  and  her  situation.  Louie's  cheeks  were 
red,  her  eyes  did  not  meet  his.  They  looked  away, 
down  towards  Clough  End. 

'  Theer's  a  blue  cotton  at  Hinton's,'  she  said,  hur- 
riedly— 'a  light-blue  cotton.  They  want  sixpence 
farthin, — but  Annie  Wigson  says  yo  could  bate  'em  a 
bit.  But  what's  t'  use  ?  '  she  added,  with  a  sudden 
savage  darkening  of  her  bright  look — '  she'd  tak  it 
away.' 

The  tone  gave  Reuben  a  shock.  But  he  did  not 
rebuke  it.  Por  the  first  time  he  and  Louie  were  con- 
spirators in  the  same  i)lot. 

'Ko,  no,  I'd  see  to  'at.  But  how  lul  yo  get  it 
made  ?  '  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a  childish  interest 
in  his  scheme. 

'Me  an  Annie  Wigson  ud  mak  it  oop  fast  enough. 


niM'.   IV  (  Il[|.I)ll(»(tI)  69 

Theer  are  things  I  can  do  for  lior ;  she'd  not  want  no 
payin,  an  she's  fearfu'  good  at  diessmakin.  She  wor 
prenticed  two  years  afore  she  took  ill.' 

'(xie  me  a  kiss  then,  my  gell ;  doan't  yo  gie  naw 
trooble,  an  we'st  see.  But  I  mun  get  a  good  price,  yo 
know.' 

And  rising,  Reuben  bent  towards  his  niece.  She 
rose  on  tiptoe,  and  just  touched  his  rough  cheek. 
There  was  no  natural  childish  effusiveness  in  the 
action.  For  the  seven  years  since  she  left  her  father, 
Louie  had  quite  unlearnt  kissing. 

Reuben  proceeded  up  the  lane  to  the  gate  leading 
to  the  moor.  He  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  What  a 
mercy  he  had  not  bothered  Hannah  with  Mr.  Ancriim's 
remarks  !  Why,  the  boy  wouldn't  go  to  a  trade,  not 
if  he  were  sent ! 

At  the  gate  he  ran  against  David,  who  came  hastily 
out  of  the  farmyard  to  intercept  him. 

'Uncle  Reuben,  what  do  they  coe  that  bit  watter 
up  theer  ?  '  and  he  pointed  up  the  lane  towards  the 
main  ridge  of  the  Peak.  '  Yo  know — that  bit  pool  on 
t'  way  to  th'  Downfall  ? ' 

The  farmer  stopped  bewildered. 

'That  bit  watter  ?  What  they  coe  that  bit  watter  ? 
Why,  they  coe  it  t'  Witch's  Pool,  or  used  to  i'  my 
yoong  days.  An  for  varra  good  reason  too.  They 
drownded  an  owd  witch  theer  i'  my  grandfeyther's 
time — I've  hecrd  my  grandmither  tell  th'  tale  on't 
scores  o'  times.  An  theer's  aw  mak  o'  tales  about  it, 
or  used  to  be.  I  hannot  yeerd  mony  words  about  it 
o'  late  years.     Who's  been  talkiu  to  yo,  Davy  ?  ' 

Louie  came  running  up  and  listened. 

'  I  doan't  know,'  said  the  boy, — '  what  soart  o' 
tales  ? ' 

'  Why,  they'd  use  to  say  th'  witch  walked,  on  soom 
neets  i'  th'  year — Easter  Eve,  most  pertickerlerly — 


70  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

an  foak  wor  feeart  to  goo  onywhere  near  it  on  those 
neets.  But  doan't  yo  goo  listenin  to  tales,  Davj^,' 
said  Reuben,  with  a  paternal  effusion  most  rare  with 
him,  and  born  of  his  recent  proceedings ;  '  yo'll  only 
freeten  yorsel  o'  neets  for  nothin.' 

'What  are  witches  ? '  demanded  Louie,  scornfully. 
'I  doan't  bleeve  in  'em.' 

Reuben  frowned  a  little. 

'  Theer  wor  witches  yance,  my  gell,  becos  it's  in  th' 
Bible,  an  whativer's  in  th'  Bible's  true,''  and  the  farmer 
brought  his  hand  down  on  the  top  bar  of  the  gate. 
'I'm  no  gien  ony  judgment  about  'em  nowadays. 
Theer  wor  aw  mak  o'  queer  things  said  about  Jenny 
Crum  an  aSTeedham  Farm  i'  th'  owd  days.  I've  heerd 
my  grandmither  say  it  worn't  worth  a  Christian  man's 
while  to  live  in  Needham  Farm  when  Jenny  Crum  wor 
about.  She  meddled  wi  everythin — wi  his  lambs,  an 
his  coos,  an  his  childer.  I  niver  seed  nothin  mysel,  so 
I  doan't  say  nowt — not  o'  mi  awn  knowledge.  But  I 
doan't  soomhow  bleeve  as  it's  th'  Awmighty's  will  to 
freeten  a  Christian  coontry  wi  witches,  i'  M  present 
dispensation.  An  murderin's  a  graat  sin,  wheder  it's 
witches  or  oother  foak.' 

'  In  t'  books  they  doan't  coe  it  t'  Witch's  Pool  at 
aw,'  said  Louie,  obstinately.  'They  coe  it  t'  Mer- 
maicVs  Pool. 

'  An  anoother  book  coes  it  a  "  Hammer-dry-ad," ' 
said  David,  mockingly,  '  soa  theer  yo  are.' 

'  Aye,  soom  faddlin  kind  of  a  name  they  gie  it — T 
know — those  Manchester  chaps,  as  cooms  trespassin 
ower  t'  Scout  wheer  they  aren't  wanted.  To  hear  ony 
yan  o'  them  talk,  yo'd  think  theer  wor  only  three 
fellows  like  'im  cam  ower  i'  three  ships,  and  two  were 
drownded.  T'aint  ov  ony  account  what  they  an  their 
books  coe  it.' 

And  Reuben,  as  he  leant  against  the  gate,  blew  his 


CHAP.  IV  nilLDIIooI)  71 

smoke  contemptuously  in  tlic  air.  It  was  not  often 
that  Reuben  Grieve  allowed  liimself,  or  was  allowed 
by  his  world,  to  use  airs  of  superiority  towards  any 
other  human  being  whatever.  IJut  in  the  case  of 
the  Manchester  clerks  and  warehousemen,  who  canu3 
tramping  over  the  grouse  moors  which  Eeuben  rented 
for  his  sheep,  and  were  always  being  turned  back  by 
keepers  or  himself — and  in  their  case  only — did  he 
exercise,  once  in  a  while,  the  commonest  privilege  of 
humanity. 

*  Did  yo  iver  know  onybody  'at  went  up  on  Easter 
Eve  ?  '  asked  David. 

Both  children  hung  on  the  answer. 

Reuben  scratched  his  head.  The  tales  of  Jenny 
Crum,  once  well  known  to  him,  had  sunk  deep  into  the 
waves  of  memory  of  late  years,  and  his  slow  mind  had 
some  difficulty  in  recovering  them.  But  at  last  he 
said  with  the  sudden  brightening  of  recollection  : 

'■  Aye — of  coorse ! — I  knew  theer  wor  soom  one.  Yo 
know  'im,  Davy,  owd  'Lias  o'  Frimley  Moor  ?  He  wor 
alius  a  foo'hardy  sort  o'  creetur.  But  if  he  wor  short 
o'  wits  when  he  gan  up,  he  wor  mich  shorter  when  he 
cam  down.  That  wor  a  rum  skit  ! — now  I  think  on  't. 
Sich  a  seet  he  Avor  !  He  came  by  here  six  o'clock  i'  th' 
mornin.  I  found  him  hangin  ower  t'  yard  gate  theer, 
as  white  an  slamp  as  a  puddin  cloth  oop  on  eend ;  an  I 
browt  him  in,  an  was  for  gien  him  soom  tay.  An  yor 
aunt,  she  gien  him  a  warkl  o'  good  advice  about  his 
gooins  on.  But  bless  yo,  he  didn't  tak  in  a  word  o'  't. 
An  for  th'  tay,  he'd  naw  sooner  swallowed  it  than  he 
runs  out,  as  quick  as  leetnin,  an  browt  it  aw  up.  He 
wor  fairly  clemmed  wi'  t'  cold, — 'at  he  wor.  I  put  in 
th'  horse,  an  I  took  him  down  to  t'  Frimle}^  carrier,  an 
we  packed  him  i'  soom  rugs  an  straw,  an  soa  he  got 
home.  But  they  put  him  out  o'  t'  school,  an  he  wor 
months  in  his  bed.     An  they  do  tell  me,  as  nobory 


72  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

Ccan  mak  owt  o'  'Lias  Dawson  these  mony  years,  i'  th' 
matter  o'  brains.  Eh,  but  yo  shudno  meddle  wi 
Satan.' 

'  What  d'yo  think  he  saw  ?  '  asked  David,  eagerly, 
his  black  eyes  all  aglow. 

'  He  saw  t'  woman  wi'  t'  fish's  tail — 'at's  what  he 
saw,'  said  Louie,  shrilly. 

Keuben  took  no  notice.  He  was  sunk  in  silent 
reverie  poking  at  his  pipe.  In  spite  of  his  confi- 
dence in  the  Almighty's  increased  goodwill  towards 
the  present  dispensation,  he  was  not  prepared  to 
say  for  certain  what  'Lias  Dawson  did  or  didn't  see. 

'  Nobory  should  goo  an  meddle  wi  Satan,'  he 
repeated  slowly  after  an  interval,  and  then  opening 
the  yard  gate  he  went  off  on  his  usual  Sunday  walk 
over  the  moors  to  have  a  look  at  his  more  distant 
sheep. 

Davy  stood  intently  looking  after  him ;  so  did 
Louie.  She  had  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head, 
her  eyes  were  wide,  her  look  and  attitude  all  eagerness. 
She  was  putting  two  and  two  together — her  uncle's 
promise  and  the  mermaid  story  as  the  Manchester 
man  had  delivered  it.  You  had  but  to  see  her  and 
wish,  and,  according  to  the  Manchester  man  and  his 
book,  you  got  your  wish.  The  child's  hatred  of  ser- 
mons and  ministers  had  not  touched  her  capacity  for 
belief  of  this  sort  in  the  least.  She  believed  fever- 
ishly, and  was  enraged  with  David  for  setting  up  a 
rival  creed,  and  with  her  uncle  for  endorsing  it. 

David  turned  and  walked  towards  the  farmyard. 
Louie  followed  him,  and  tapped  him  peremptorily  on 
the  arm.  'I'm  gooin  up  tlieer  Easter  Eve — Saturday 
week ' — and  she  pointed  over  her  shoulder  to  the 
Scout. 

'  Gells  conno  be  out  neets,'  said  David  firmly  ;  '  if  I 
goo  I  can  tell  yo.' 


niAP.  V  (  iiii.nnooD 


hi 


'  Yo'll  not  goo  without  me — I'd  tell  Aunt  Hannah  ! ' 

'  Yo've  naw  moor  sense  nor  rotten  sticks  ! '  said 
David,  angrily.  '  Vo'll  get  your  death,  an  Aunt  Han- 
nah '11  be  stick  stock  mad  wi  boath  on  us.  If  I  goo 
she'll  niver  tind  out.' 

Louie  hesitated  a  moment.  To  provoke  Aunt 
Hannah  too  mucli  might,  indeed,  endanger  the  blue 
frock.     But  daring  and  curiosity  triumplLed. 

'  I  doan't  care  I '  she  said,  tossing  her  head  ;  '  I'm 
gooin.' 

David  slamned  the  yard  gate,  and,  hiding  himself 
in  a  corner  of  the  cowhouse,  fell  into  moody  medita- 
tions. It  took  all  the  tragic  and  mysterious  edge  off 
an  adventure  he  had  set  his  heart  on  that  Louie  should 
insist  on  going  too.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
Xext  day  they  planned  it  together. 


CHAPTEK  V 

'Reubex,  ha  yo  seen  t'  childer  ? '  inquired  Aunt 
Hannah,  poking  her  head  round  the  door,  so  as  to  be 
heard  by  her  husband,  who  was  sitting  outside  cob- 
bling at  a  bit  of  broken  harness. 

'  Noa ;  niver  seed  un  since  dinner.' 

'  They  went  down  to  Clough  End,  two  o'clock  about, 
for  t'  bread,  an  I've  yerd  nothin  ov  em  since.  Coom 
in  to  your  tay,  Reuben  !  I'll  keep  nothin  waitin  for 
them  I  They  may  goo  empty  if  they  conno  keep 
time  ! ' 

Reuben  Avent  in.  An  hour  later  the  husband  and 
wife  came  out  together,  and  stood  looking  down  the 
steep  road  leading  to  the  town. 

'Just  cast  your  eye  on  aw  them  stockins  waitin  to 
be  mended,'  said  Hannah,  angrily,  turning  back  to  the 


74  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GKTEA^E        book  i 

kitchen,  and  pointing  to  a  chair  piled  with  various 
garments.  'That's  why  she  doon  it,  I  spose.  I'll  be 
even  wi  her  !  It's  a  poor  soart  of  a  supper  she'll  get 
this  neet,  or  he  noather.  An  her  stomach  aw  she 
cares  for ! ' 

Eeuben  wandered  down  into  the  road,  strolled  up 
and  down  for  nearly  an  hour,  while  the  sun  set  and 
the  light  waned,  went  as  far  as  the  corner  by  Wigson's 
farm,  asked  a  passer-by,  saw  and  heard  nothing,  and 
came  back,  shaking  his  head  in  answer  to  his  wife's 
shrill  interrogations. 

'  Wal,  if  I  doan't  gie  Louie  a  good  smackin,'  ejacu- 
lated Hannah,  exasperated  ;  and  she  was  just  going 
back  into  the  house  when  an  exclamation  from 
Reuben  stopped  her ;  instead,  she  ran  out  to  him, 
holding  on  her  cap  against  the  east  wind. 

'  Look  theer,'  he  said,  pointing  ;  '  what  iver  is  them 
two  uj)  to  ? ' 

For  suddenly  he  had  noticed  outside  the  gate  lead- 
ing into  the  field  a  basket  lying  on  the  ground  against 
the  wall.  The  two  j^eered  at  it  with  amazement,  for 
it  was  their  own  basket,  and  in  it  reposed  the  loaves 
David  had  been  told  to  bring  back  from  Clough  End, 
while  on  the  top  lay  a  couple  of  cotton  reels  and  a 
card  of  mending  which  Louie  had  been  instructed  to 
buy  for  her  aunt. 

After  a  moment  lieuben  looked  up,  his  face  working. 

'  I'm  thinkin,  Hannah,  they'n  roon  away  ! ' 

It  seemed  to  him  as  he  spoke  that  such  a  possibility 
had  been  always  in  his  mind.  And  during  the  past 
Aveek  there  had  been  much  bad  blood  between  aunt 
and  niece.  Twice  had  the  child  gone  to  bed  supper- 
less,  and  yesterday,  for  some  impertinence,  Hannah 
had  given  her  a  blow,  the  marks  of  which  on  her 
cheek  Reuben  had  watched  guiltily  all  day.  At  night 
he  had  dreamed  of  Sandy.     Since  Mr.  Ancrum  had 


CHAP.  V  rniLl)Tl(tni)  75 

set  him  thinking,  and  so  stirred  his  conscience  in 
various  indirect  and  unforeseen  ways,  Sandy  had  been 
a  terror  to  him  ;  tlie  dead  man  liad  gained  a  mysteri- 
ous hokl  on  the  living. 

'Koon  away  !  '  rejjeated  Hannah  scornfully;  'whar 
ud  they  roon  to  ?  They're  just  at  soom  o'  their  divil- 
ments,  'afs  what  they  are.  An  if  yo  doan't  tak  a  stick 
to  boath  on  them  when  they  coom  back,  /  loill,  soa 
theer,  lleuben  Grieve.  Yo  niver  had  no  sperrit  wi  'em 
— niver — and  that's  yan  reason  why  they've  grown  up 
soa  ramjam  full  o'  wickedness.' 

It  relieved  her  to  abuse  her  husband.  Reuben  said 
nothing,  but  hung  over  the  wall,  straining  his  eyes 
into  the  gathering  darkness.  The  wooded  sides  of  the 
great  moor  which  enclosed  the  valley  to  the  north 
were  fading  into  dimness,  and  to  the  east,  above  the 
ridge  of  Kinder  Low  a  young  moon  was  rising.  The 
black  steep  wall  of  the  Scout  was  swiftly  taking  to 
itself  that  majesty  which  all  mountains  win  from  the 
approach  of  night.  Involuntarily,  Reuben  held  his 
breath,  listening,  hungering  for  the  sound  of  children's 
voices  on  the  still  air.  Nothing — but  a  few  intermit- 
tent bird  notes  and  the  eternal  hurry  of  water  from 
the  moorland  to  the  plain. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  road,  and  a  man  passed 
whistling. 

'Jim  Wigson! '  shouted  Hannah,  'is  that  yo,  Jim  ?' 

The  man  opened  the  yard  gate,  and  came  through 
to  them.  Jim  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  neighbouring 
farmer,  whose  girls  were  Louie's  only  companions. 
He  was  a  full-blooded  swaggering  youth,  with  whom 
David  was  generally  on  bad  terms.  David  despised 
him  for  an  oaf  who  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and 
hated  him  for  a  bully. 

He  grinned  Avhen  Hannah  asked  him  questions 
about  the  truants. 


76  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

'"Why,  they're  gone  to  Edale,  th'  yoong  rascots,  I'll 
uphowd  yo  !  There's  a  parcel  o'  gijjsies  there  tellin 
fortunes,  an'  lots  o'  foak  ha  gone  ower  there  to-day. 
You  may  mak  your  mind  up  they've  gone  to  Edale. 
That  Louie's  a  limb,  she  is.  She's  got  spunk  enough 
to  waak  to  Lunnon  if  she'd  a  mind.  Oh,  they'll  be 
back  here  soon  enough,  trust  'em.' 

'  I  shut  my  door  at  nine  o'clock,'  said  Hannah, 
grimly.  '  Them  as  cooms  after  that,  may  sleep  as 
they  can.' 

'  Well,  that'll  be  sharp  wark  for  th'  eyes  if  they're 
gone  to  Edale,'  said  Jim,  with  a  laugh.  '  It's  a  good 
step  fro  here  to  Edale.' 

'  Aye,  and  soom  o'  't  bad  ground,'  said  Eeuben  un- 
easily— '  varra  bad  ground.' 

'Aye,  it's  not  good  walkin,  neets.  If  they  conno 
see  their  way  when  they  get  top  o'  t'  Downfall,  they'll 
stay  theer  till  it  gets  niornin,  if  they've  ony  sort  o' 
gumption.  But,  bless  yo,  it  bean't  gooin  to  be  a  dark 
neet,' — and  he  pointed  to  the  moon.  '  They'll  be  here 
afore  yo  goo  to  bed.  An  if  yo  want  onybody  to  help 
yo  gie  Davy  a  bastin.  just  coe  me,  Mr.  Grieve.  Good 
neet  to  yo.' 

Eeuben  fidgeted  restlessly  all  the  evening.  Towards 
nine  he  went  out  on  the  pretext  of  seeing  to  a  cow 
that  had  lately  calved  and  was  in  a  weakly  state.  He 
gave  the  animal  her  food  and  clean  litter,  doing  every- 
thing more  clumsily  than  usual.  Then  he  went  into 
the  stable  and  groped  about  for  a  lantern  that  stood 
in  the  corner. 

He  found  it,  slipped  through  the  farmyard  into  the 
lane,  and  then  lit  it  out  of  sight  of  the  house. 

'  It's  bad  ground  top  o'  t'  Downfall,'  he  said  to  him- 
self, apologetically,  as  he  guiltily  opened  the  gate  on 
to  the  moor — '  varra  bad  ground.' 

Hannah  shut  her  door  that  night  neither  at  nine  nor 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  77 

at  ten.  For  by  the  latter  hour  the  master  of  the  house 
was  still  absent,  and  nowhere  to  be  found,  in  spite  of 
repeated  calls  from  the  door  and  up  the  lane.  Hannah 
guessed  where  he  had  gone  without  much  difficulty ; 
but  her  guess  only  raised  her  wrath  to  a  white  heat. 
Troublesome  brats  Sandy's  children  had  always  been — 
Louie  more  especially — but  they  had  never  perpetrated 
any  such  overt  act  of  rebellion  as  this  before,  and  the 
dour,  tyrannical  woman  was  filled  with  a  kind  of  silent 
frenzy  as  she  thought  of  her  husband  going  out  to 
welcome  the  wanderers. 

'It's  a  quare  kind  o'  fatted  calf  they'll  get  when  1 
lay  hands  on  'em,'  she  thought  to  herself  as  she  stood 
at  the  front  door,  in  the  cold  darkness,  listening. 

Meanwhile  David  and  Louie,  high  up  on  the  side  of 
Kinder  Scout,  were  speculating  with  a  fearful  joy  as  to 
what  might  be  happening  at  the  farm.  The  manner  of 
their  escape  had  cost  them  much  thought.  Should  they 
slip  out  of  the  front  door  instead  of  going  to  bed  ?  But 
the  woodwork  of  the  farm  was  old  and  creaking,  and 
the  bolts  and  bars  heavy.  They  were  generally  secured 
before  supper  by  Hannah  herself,  and,  though  they 
might  be  surreptitiously  oiled,  the  children  despaired 
— considering  how  close  the  kitchen  was  to  the  front 
door — of  getting  out  without  rousing  Hannah's  sharp 
ears.  Other  projects,  in  which  windows  and  ropes 
played  a  part,  were  discussed.  David  held  strongly 
that  he  alone  could  have  managed  any  one  of  them, 
but  he  declined  flatly  to  attempt  them  with  a  'gell.' 
In  the  same  way  he  alone  could  have  made  his  way  up 
the  Scout  and  over  the  river  in  the  dark.  But  who'd 
try  it  with  a  '  gell '  ? 

The  boy's  natural  conviction  of  the  uselessness  of 
'gells'  was  never  more  disagreeably  expressed  than 
on  this  occasion.  But  he  could  not  shake  Louie 
off.     She  pinched  him  when  he  enraged  her  beyond 


78  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

bounds,  but  she  never  wavered  in  her  determination 
to  go  too. 

Finally  they  decided  to  brave  Aunt  Hannah  and 
take  the  consequences.  They  meant  to  be  out  all 
uight  in  hiding,  and  in  the  morning  they  would  come 
back  and  take  their  beatings.  David  comfortably 
reflected  that  Uncle  Reuben  couldn't  do  him  much 
harm,  and,  though  Louie  could  hardly  flatter  herself 
so  far,  her  tone,  also,  in  the  matter  was  philosophical. 

'  Theer's  soom  bits  o'  owd  books  i'  th'  top-attic,'  she 
said  to  David ;  '  I'll  leave  'em  in  t'  stable,  an  when 
we  coom  home,  I'll  tie  'em  on  my  back — under  my 
dress — an  she  may  leather  away  till  Christmas.' 

So  on  their  return  from  Clough  End  with  the  bread 
— about  five  o'clock — they  slipped  into  the  field, 
crouching  under  the  wall,  so  as  to  escape  Hannah's 
observation,  deposited  their  basket  by  the  gate,  took 
up  a  bundle  and  tin  box  which  David  had  hidden  that 
morning  under  the  hedge,  and,  creeping  back  again 
into  the  road,  passed  noiselessly  through  the  gate  on 
to  the  moor,  just  as  Aunt  Hannah  was  lifting  the 
kettle  off  the  fire  for  tea. 

Then  came  a  wild  and  leaping  flight  over  the  hill, 
down  to  the  main  Kinder  stream,  across  it,  and  up  the 
face  of  the  Scout — up,  and  up,  with  smothered  laugh- 
ter, and  tumbles  and  scratches  at  every  step,  and  a 
glee  of  revolt  and  adventure  swelling  every  vein. 

It  was  then  a  somewhat  stormy  afternoon,  with 
alternate  gusts  of  wind  and  gleams  of  sun  playing  on 
the  black  boulders,  the  red-brown  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  air  was  really  cold  and  cutting,  promising 
a  frosty  night.  But  the  children  took  no  notice  of  it. 
Up,  and  on,  through  the  elastic  carpet  of  heather  and 
bilberry,  and  across  bogs  which  showed  like  veins  of 
vivid  green  on  the  dark  surface  of  the  moor ;  under 
circling  peewits,  who  fled  before  them,  crying  with 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  79 

plaintive  shrillness  to  eacli  other,  as  though  in  pro- 
test ;  and  past  grouse-nests,  whence  'the  startled 
mothers  soared  precipitately  with  angry  duckings, 
each  leaving  behind  her  a  loose  gathering  of  eggs 
lying  wide  and  ojjen  on  the  heather,  those  newly  laid 
gleaming  a  brighter  red  beside  their  fellows.  The  tin 
box  and  its  contents  rattled  under  David's  arm  as  he 
leapt  and  straddlrd  across  tlie  bogs,  choosing  always 
the  widest  jump  and  the  stiffest  bit  of  climb,  out  of 
sheer  wantonness  of  life  and  energy.  Louie's  thin 
figure,  in  its  skimp  cotton  dress  and  red  crossover, 
her  long  legs  in  their  blue  worsted  stockings,  seemed 
to  fly  over  the  moor,  winged,  as  it  were,  by  an  ecstasy 
of  freedom.  If  one  could  but  be  in  two  places  at  once 
— on  the  Scout — and  peeping  from  some  safe  corner 
at  Aunt  Hannah's  wrath  ! 

Presently  they  came  to  the  shoulder  whereon — 
gleaming  under  the  level  light — lay  the  jNIermaid's 
Pool.  David  had  sufficiently  verified  the  fact  that  the 
tarn  did  indeed  bear  this  name  in  the  modern  guide- 
book parlance  of  the  district.  Young  men  and  w^omen, 
out  on  a  holiday  from  the  big  towns  near,  and  carry- 
ing little  red  or  green  '  guides,'  sj^oke  of  the  '  Mer- 
maid's Pool'  with  the  accent  of  romantic  interest. 
But  the  boy  had  also  discovered  that  no  native-born 
farmer  or  shepherd  about  had  ever  heard  of  the  name, 
or  would  have  a  word  to  say  to  it.  And  for  the  first 
time  he  had  stumbled  full  into  the  deep  deposit  of 
Avitch-lorc  and  belief  still  surviving  in  the  Kinder 
Scout  district,  as  in  all  the  remoter  moorland  of  the 
North.  Especially  had  he  won  the  confidence  of  a 
certain  '  owd  ^Nlatt,'  a  shepherd  from  a  farm  high  on 
Mardale  Moor ;  and  the  tales  '  owd  ]\Iatt '  had  told 
him — of  mysterious  hares  coursed  at  night  by  angry 
farmers  enraged  by  the  'bedivilment'  of  their  stock, 
shot  at  with  silver  slugs,  and  identified  next  morning 


80  THE  HISTORY  OF   D.UII)   (BRIEVE        book  i 

Avith  some  dreaded  hag  or  other  lying  groaning  and 
wounded  in  her  bed — of  calves'  hearts  burnt  at  mid- 
night with  awful  ceremonies,  while  the  baffled  witch 
outside  flung  herself  in  rage  and  agony  against  the 
close-barred  doors  and  windows — of  spells  and  Avise 
men — these  things  had  sent  chills  of  pleasing  horror 
through  the  boy's  frame.  They  Avere  altogether  new 
to  him,  in  this  vivid  personal  guise  at  least,  and 
mixed  up  Avith  all  the  familiar  names  and  places  of 
the  district ;  for  his  childish  life  had  been  singularly 
solitary,  giving  to  books  the  part  Avliich  half  a  century 
ago  Avould  have  been  taken  by  tradition ;  and,  more- 
over, the  witch-belief  in  general  had  noAV  little  foot- 
hold among  the  younger  generation  of  the  Scout,  and 
Avas  only  spoken  of  Avith  reserve  and  discretion  among 
the  older  men. 

But  the  stories  once  heard  had  struck  deep  into  the 
lad's  quick  and  pondering  mind.  Jenny  Crum  seemed 
to  have  been  the  latest  of  all  the  great  Avitches  of 
Kinder  Scout.  The  memory  of  her  as  a  real  and 
awful  personage  was  still  fresh  in  the  mind  of  many 
a  grey-haired  farmer ;  the  history  of  her  death  Avas 
Avell  knoAvn ;  and  most  of  the  local  inhabitants,  even 
the  boys  and  girls,  turned  out,  Avhen  a'ou  came  to 
inquire,  to  be  familiar  Avith  the  later  legends  of  the 
Pool,  and,  as  David  presently  discovered,  Avith  one  or 
more  tales — for  the  stories  were  discrepant — of  'Lias 
DaAvson's  meeting  Avith  the  witch,  noAV  fifteen  years 
ago. 

'  What  had  'Lias  seen  ?  What  Avould  they  see  ? ' 
His  flesh  crept  deliciously. 

'  Wal,  OAvd  Mermaid  I '  shouted  Louie,  defiantly,  as 
soon  as  she  had  got  her  breath  again.  '  Are  yo  coomin 
out  to-night  ?     Yo'll  ha  coompany  if  you  do.' 

David  smiled  contemptuously  and  did  not  conde- 
scend to  argue. 


.  iiAi'.  V  CHILDHOOD  81 

*  Are  yo  coomin  on  ? '  he  said,  shouldering  his  box 
and  bundle  again.  'They'st  be  up  after  us  if  we 
doan't  look  out.' 

And  on  they  went,  cliuibing  a  steep  boulder-strewn 
slope  above  the  ])Ool  till  they  came  to  the  '  edge ' 
itself,  a  tossed  and  Itroken  battlement  of  stone,  run- 
ning along  the  top  of  the  Scout.  Here  the  great  black 
slabs  of  grit  were  lying  fantastically  ]>iled  ujion  each 
other  at  every  angle  and  in  every  possible  combina- 
tion. The  path  which  leads  from  the  Hayfield  side 
across  the  desolate  tableland  of  the  Scout  to  the  Snake 
Inn  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  ridge,  ran  among  them, 
and  many  a  wayfarer,  benighted  or  mist-bound  on  the 
moor,  had  taken  refuge  before  now  in  their  caverns 
and  recesses,  waiting  for  the  light,  and  dreading  to 
hnd  himself  on  the  cliffs  of  the  Downfall. 

But  David  pushed  on  past  many  hiding-places  well 
known  to  him,  till  the  two  reached  the  point  where  the 
mountain  face  sweeps  l)aekward  in  the  curve  of  which 
the  Downfall  makes  the  centre.  At  the  outward 
edge  of  the  curve  a  great  buttress  of  ragged  and  jut- 
ting rocks  descends  perpendicularly  towards  the  val- 
ley, like  a  ruined  staircase  with  displaced  and  gigantic 
steps. 

DoAvn  this  David  began  to  make  his  way,  and  Louie 
jumped,  and  slid,  and  swung  after  him,  as  lithe  and 
sure-footed  as  a  cat.  Presently  David  stopped.  'This 
uU  do,'  he  said,  surveying  the  place  with  a  critical 
eve. 

They  had  just  slid  down  a  sloping  chimney  of  rock, 
and  were  now  standing  on  a  flat  block,  over  which 
hung  another  like  a  penthouse  roof.  On  the  side  of 
the  Downfall  there  was  a  projecting  stone,  on  which 
David  stepped  out  to  look  about  liira. 

Holding  on  to  a  rock  above  for  precaution's  sake, 
he  reconnoitred  their  position.     To  his  left  was  the 

AT)L.   I  G 


82  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

black  and  semicircular  cliff,  down  the  centre  of  which 
the  Downfall  stream,  now  tamed  and  thinned  by  the 
dry  spring  winds,  was  trickling.  The  course  of  the 
stream  was  marked  by  a  vivid  orange  colour,  pro- 
duced, apparently,  in  the  grit  by  the  action  of  water ; 
and  about  halfway  down  the  fall  a  mass  of  rock  had 
recently  slipped,  leaving  a  bright  scar,  through  which 
one  saw,  as  it  were,  the  inner  mass  of  the  Peak,  the 
rectangular  blocks,  now  thick,  now  thin,  as  of  some 
Cyclopean  masonry,  wherewith  the  earth-forces  had 
built  it  up  in  days  before  a  single  alp  had  yet  risen 
on  the  face  of  Europe.  Below  the  boy's  feet  a  preci- 
pice, which  his  projecting  stone  overhung,  fell  to  the 
bed  of  the  stream.  On  this  side  at  least  they  were 
abundantly  protected. 

On  the  moorside  the  steep  broken  ground  of  the 
hill  came  np  to  the  rocky  line  they  had  been  descend- 
ing, and  offered  no  difficulty  to  any  sure-footed  person. 
But  no  path  ran  anywhere  near  them,  and  from  the 
path  up  above  they  were  screened  by  the  grit  'edge' 
already  spoken  of.  Moreover,  their  penthouse,  or 
half-gable,  had  towards  the  Downfall  a  tolerably  wide 
opening  ;  but  towards  the  moor  and  the  north  there 
was  but  a  narrow  hole,  which  David  soon  saw  could  be 
stopped  by  a  stone.  When  he  crept  back  into  their 
hiding-place,  it  pleased  him  extremely. 

'■  They'll  niver  find  us,  if  they  look  till  next  week  ! ' 
he  exclaimed  exultantly,  and,  slipping  off  the  heavy 
bundle  strapped  on  his  back,  he  undid  its  contents. 
Two  old  woollen  rugs  appeared — one  a  blanket,  the 
other  a  horse-rug — and  wrapped  np  in  the  middle  of 
them  a  jagged  piece  of  tarpaulin,  a  hammer,  some 
wooden  pegs,  and  two  or  three  pieces  of  tallow  dip. 
Louie,  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  other  corner,  with 
her  chin  in  her  hands,  looked  on  with  her  usual  de- 
tached and  critical  air.     David  had  not  allowed  her 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  83 

iiuu:h  of  a  voice  in  the  preparations,  and  she  felt  an 
instinctive  aversion  towards  other  people's  ingenu- 
ities. All  she  had  contributed  was  something  to 
while  away  the  time,  in  the  shape  of  a  bag  of  bull's- 
eyes,  bought  with  some  of  the  sixpence  Uncle  Reuben 
had  given  her. 

Having  laid  out  his  stores,  David  went  to  work. 
Getting  out  on  tlie  projecting  stone  again,  he  laid  the 
bit  of  tarpaulin  along  the  sloping  edge  of  the  rock 
which  roofed  them,  pegged  it  down  into  crevices  at 
either  end,  and  laid  a  stone  to  hold  it  in  the  middle. 
Then  he  slipped  back  again,  and,  behold,  there  was  a 
curtain  between  them  and  the  Downfall,  which,  as  the 
dusk  was  fast  advancing,  made  the  little  den  inside 
almost  completely  dark. 

'  What's  t'  good  o'  that?  '  incpiired  Louie,  scornfully, 
more  than  half  inclined  to  put  out  a  mischievous  hand 
and  pull  it  down  again. 

'  Doair't  worrit,  and  yo'll  see,'  returned  David,  and 
Louie's  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  malice. 

Stooping  down  beside  her,  he  looked  through  the 
hole  which  opened  to  the  moor.  His  eye  travelled 
down  the  hillside  to  the  path  far  below,  just  visible  in 
the  twilight  to  a  practised  eye,  to  the  river,  to  the 
pasture-fields  on  the  hill  beyond,  and  to  the  smoke, 
rising  above  the  tops  of  some  unseen  trees,  which 
marked  the  site  of  the  farmhouse.  Ko  one  in  sight. 
The  boy  crawled  out,  and  searched  the  moor  till  he 
found  a  large  flattish  stone,  which  he  brought  and 
placed  against  the  opening,  ready  to  be  drawn  quite 
across  it  from  inside. 

Then  he  slii)ped  back  again,  and  in  the  glimmer  of 
light  which  remained  groped  for  his  tin  box.  Louie 
stooped  over  and  eagerly  watched  him  open  it.  Out 
came  a  bottle  of  milk,  some  large  slices  of  bread,  some 
oatcake,  and  some  cheese,     in  the  corner,  recklessly 


84  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

near  the  cheese,  lurked  a  grease-bespattered  lantern 
and  a  box  of  matches.  David  had  borrowed  the  lan- 
tern that  afternoon  from  a  Clough  End  friend  under 
the  most  solemn  vows  of  secrecy,  and  he  drew  it  out 
now  with  a  deliberate  and  special  relish.  When  he 
had  driven  a  peg  into  a  cranny  of  the  rock,  trimmed 
half  a  dip  carefully,  lighted  it,  put  it  into  the  lantern, 
and  hung  the  lantern  on  the  peg,  he  fell  back  on  his 
heels  to  study  the  effect,  with  a  beaming  countenance, 
filled  all  through  with  the  essentially  human  joy  of 
contrivance. 

'Now,  then,  d'yo  see  what  that  tarpaulin's  for  ?'  he 
inquired  triumphantly  of  Louie. 

But  Louie's  mouth  was  conveniently  occupied  with 
a  bull's-eye,  and  she  only  sucked  it  the  more  vigor- 
ously in  answer. 

'  Why,  yo  little  silly,  if  it  worn't  for  that  we  couldno 
ha  no  leet.  They'd  see  us  from  t'  fields  even,  as  soon 
as  it's  real  dark.' 

'  Doan't  bleeve  it,'  said  Louie,  laconically,  in  a  voice 
much  mufSed  by  bull's-eyes. 

'Wal,  yo  needn't;  I'm  gooin  to  have  my  tea.' 

And  David,  diving  into  the  tin,  brought  out  a  hunch 
of  bread  and  a  knob  of  cheese.  The  voracity  with 
which  he  fell  on  them,  soon,  with  him  also,  stopped 
up  the  channels  of  speech.  Louie,  alarmed  perhaps 
by  the  rapidity  with  which  the  mouthfuls  disappeared, 
slid  up  on  her  heels  and  claimed  her  share.  Never  was 
there  a  more  savoury  meal  than  that !  Their  little  den 
with  its  curtain  felt  warm  for  the  moment  after  the 
keen  air  of  the  moor ;  the  lantern  light  seemed  to  shut 
them  in  from  the  world,  gave  them  the  sense  of  settlers 
carving  a  home  out  of  the  desert,  and  milk  which  had 
been  filched  from  Aunt  Hannah  lay  like  nectar  in  the 
mouth. 

After  their  meal  both  children  crept  out  on  to  the 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  85 

moor  to  see  what  miglit  be  going  on  in  the  world  out- 
side. Darkness  was  fast  advancing.  A  rising  wind 
swept  through  tlie  dead  bracken,  whirled  round  the 
great  grit  boulders,  and  sent  a  shiver  through  Louie's 
thin  body. 

*  It's  cowd,'  she  said  pettishly  ;  <  I'm  gooin  back.' 

'Did  yo  spose  it  wor  gooin  to  be  warm,  yo  little 
silly  ?  That's  why  I  browt  t'  rugs,  of  course.  Gells 
never  think  o'  nothin.  It's  parishin  cowd  here,  neets 
— fit  to  tie  yo  up  in  knots  Avi  tli'  rheumatics,  like  Jim 
Spedding,  if  yo  doan't  mind  yorsel.  It  wor  only  lay- 
ing out  a  neet  on  Frimley  Moor — poachin,  I  guess — 
'at  twisted  Jim  that  way.' 

Louie's  countenance  fell.  Jim  Spedding  was  a  lit- 
tle crooked  greengrocer  in  Clough  End,  of  whom  she 
had  a  horror.  The  biting  hostile  wind,  which  obliged 
her  to  hold  her  hat  on  against  it  with  both  hands,  the 
black  moor  at  their  feet,  the  grey  sweep  of  sky,  the 
].>ale  cloudy  moon,  the  darkness  which  was  fast  envel- 
oping them— blotting  out  the  distant  waves  of  hill, 
and  fusing  the  great  blocks  of  grit  above  them  into 
one  threatening  mass— all  these  became  suddenly  hate- 
ful to  her.  She  went  back  into  their  den,  wrapped 
herself  up  in  one  of  the  tattered  rugs,  and  crept  sulk- 
ily into  a  corner.  The  lantern  gleamed  on  the  child's 
huddled  form,  the  frowning  brow,  the  great  vixenish 
eyes.  She  had  half  a  mind  to  run  home,  in  spite  of 
Aunt  Hannah.    Hours  to  wait  I  and  she  loathed  waiting. 

But  gradually,  as  the  rug  warmed  her,  the  passion 
for  adventure  and  mystery — the  vision  of  the  mermaid 
— the  hope  of  the  blue  cotton — reasserted  themselves, 
and  the  little  sharp  face  relaxed.  She  began  to  amuse 
herself  with  hunting  the  spiders  and  beetles  which 
ran  across  the  rocky  roof  above  her  head,  or  crept  in 
and  out  of  the  crevices  of  stone,  wondering,  no  doubt, 
at    this    unbidden    and    tormenting    daylight.       She 


86  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

caught  one  or  two  small  blackbeetles  in  a  dirty  rag  of 
a  lianilkercliief — for  she  would  not  touch  them  it"  she 
could  help  it — and  then  it  delighted  her  to  push  aside 
the  curtain,  stretch  her  hand  out  into  the  void  dark- 
ness, and  let  them  fall  into  the  gulf  below.  Even  if 
they  could  fly,  she  reflected,  it  must  'gie  em  a  good 
start.' 

Meanwhile,  David  had  charged  up  the  hill,  filled 
with  a  sudden  curiosity  to  see  what  the  top  of  the 
Scout  might  look  like  by  night.  He  made  his  way 
through  the  battlement  of  grit,  found  the  little  path 
behind,  gleaming  white  in  the  moonlight,  because  of 
the  quartz  sheddings  which  wind  and  weather  are  for 
ever  teasing  out  of  the  grit,  and  which  drift  into  the 
open  spaces ;  and  at  last,  guided  by  the  sound  and  the 
gleam  of  water,  he  made  out  the  top  of  the  Downfall, 
climbed  a  high  peak  bank,  and  the  illimitable  plateau 
of  the  Scout  lay  wide  and  vast  before  him. 

Here,  on  the  mountain-top,  there  seemed  to  be 
more  daylight  left  than  on  its  rocky  sides,  and  the 
moon  among  the  parting  clovids  shone  intermittently 
over  the  primeval  waste.  The  top  of  the  Peak  is,  so 
to  speak,  a  vast  black  glacier,  whereof  the  crevasses 
are  great  fissures,  ebon-black  in  colour,  sometimes  ten 
feet  deep,  and  with  ten  feet  more  of  black  water 
at  the  bottom.  For  miles  on  either  side  the  ground 
is  seamed  and  torn  with  these  crevasses,  now  shal- 
lower, now  deeper,  succeeding  each  other  at  intervals 
of  a  yard  or  two,  and  it  is  they  which  make  the  cross- 
ing of  the  Peak  in  the  dark  or  in  mist  a  matter  of 
danger  sometimes  even  for  the  native.  David,  high 
on  his  bank,  from  which  the  black  overhanging  eaves 
curled  inwards  beneath  his  feet  to  a  sullen  depth  of 
water,  could  see  against  the  moonlit  sky  the  posts 
which  marked  the  track  from  the  Downfall  to  the 
Snake  Inn  on  the  Glossop  Road.     Miss  that  track — a 


CHAP.  V  CIIII-DlIixtl)  87 

matter  of  some  fifteen  minutes'  walk  for  the  sturdy 
farmer  wlio  knows  it  well — and  you  iind  yourself  lost 
in  a  region  wliieli  has  no  features  and  no  landmarks, 
where  the  earth  lays  snares  for  you  and  the  mists  be- 
tray you,  and  wliere  even  in  bright  sunshine  there 
reigns  an  eternal  and  indescribable  melancholy.  The 
strangeness  and  wildness  of  the  scene  entered  the  boy's 
consciousness,  and  brought  with  them  a  kind  of  exal- 
tation. He  stood  gazing;  that  inner  life  of  his,  of 
which  Louie,  his  constant  companion,  knew  as  good  as 
nothing,  asserting  itself. 

For  the  real  companions  of  his  heart  were  not  Louie 
or  the  boys  with  whom  he  had  joked  and  sparred  at 
school ;  they  were  ideas,  images,  sounds,  imaginations, 
caught  from  books  or  from  the  talk  of  old  'Lias  and 
Mr.  Ancrum.  He  had  but  to  stand  still  a  moment,  as 
it  were,  to  listen,  and  the  voices  and  sights  of  another 
world  came  out  before  him  like  players  on  to  a  stage. 
Spaces  of  shining  water,  crossed  by  ships  with  decks 
manned  by  heroes  for  whom  tlio  blue  distance  was  for 
ever  revealing  new  lands  to  conquer,  new  adventures 
to  affront ;  the  plumed  Indian  in  his  forest  divining 
the  track  of  his  enemy  from  a  displaced  leaf  or  twig ; 
the  Zealots  of  Jehovah  urging  a  last  frenzied  defence 
of  Jehovah's  Sanctuary  against  the  Roman  host;  and 
now,  last  of  all,  the  gloom  and  flames,  the  infernal 
palaces,  the  towering  hends,  the  grandiose  and  lumber- 
ing war  of  '  Paradise  Lost ' :  these  things,  together 
with  the  names  and  suggestions  of  'Lias's  talk — that 
whole  crew  of  shining,  fighting,  haranguing  men  and 
women  whom  the  old  dreamer  was  for  ever  bringing 
into  weird  action  on  the  moorside — lived  in  the  boy's 
mind,  and  in  any  pause  of  silence,  as  we  have  said, 
emerged  and  took  possession. 

It  was  only  that  morning,  in  an  old  meal-chest 
which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather,  James  Grieve, 


88  THE   IIISTOIJY   OF   DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

he  had  discovered  the  old  calf-bound  copy  of  '  Paradise 
Lost,'  which  was  now  in  one  of  his  pockets,  balanced 
by  '  Anson's  Voyages  '  in  the  other.  All  the  morning 
he  had  been  lying  hidden  in  a  corner  of  the  sheepfold 
devouring  it,  the  rolling  verse  imprinting  itself  on  the 
boy's  plastic  memory  by  a  sort  of  enchantment — 

You  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  -wild, 
The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light. 
Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  tlanies 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful. 

He  chanted  the  words  aloud,  flinging  them  out  in  an 
ecstasy  of  pleasure.  Before  him,  as  it  seemed,  there 
stretched  that  very  plain  'forlorn  and  wild,'  with  its 
black  fissures  and  its  impenetrable  horizons ;  the  fit- 
ful moonlight  stood  for  the  glimmering  of  the  Tar- 
tarean flames ;  the  remembered  words  and  the  actual 
sights  played  into  and  fused  witli  each  other,  till  in 
the  cold  and  darkness  the  boy  thrilled  all  through 
with  that  mingling  of  joy  and  terror  Avhich  is  only 
possible  to  the  creature  of  fine  gifts  and  high  imagina- 
tion. 

Jenny  Criim,  too  !  A  few  more  hours  and  he  might 
see  her  face  to  face — as  'Lias  had  seen  her.  He 
quaked  a  little  at  the  thought,  but  he  would  not  have 
flinched  for  the  world.  He  was  not  going  to  lose  his 
wits,  as  'Lias  did ;  and  as  for  Louie,  if  she  were  fright- 
ened it  would  do  her  good  to  be  afraid  of  something. 

Hark !  He  turned,  stooped,  put  his  hand  to  his 
ear. 

The  sound  he  heard  had  startled  him,  turned  him 
pale.  But  he  soon  recovered  himself.  It  was  the 
sound  of  heavy  boots  on  stones,  and  it  was  brought  to 
him  by  the  wind,  as  it  seemed,  from  far  below.  Some 
one  was  coming  after  them — perhaps  more  than  one. 
He  thought  he  heard  a  voice. 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  89 

He  leapt  fissure  after  fissure  like  a  young  too,  fled 
to  the  top  of  the  Downfall  and  looked  over.  Did  the 
light  show  through  the  tarpaulin?  Alack  I — there 
must  be  a  rent  somewhere — for  he  saw  a  dim  glow- 
worm light  beyond  the  cliff,  on  the  dark  rib  of  the 
mountain.  It  was  invisible  from  below,  Ijut  any  rov- 
ing eye  from  the  top  would  be  cauglit  by  it  in  an 
instant.  In  a  second  he  had  raced  along  the  edge, 
dived  in  and  out  of  the  blocks,  guiding  liis  way  by  a 
sort  of  bat's  instinct,  till  he  reached  the  rocky  stair- 
way, which  he  descended  at  imminent  risk  of  his  neck. 

'Put  your  hand  ower  t'  leet,  Louie,  till  I  inove  t' 
stone  ! ' 

The  light  disappeared,  David  crept  in,  and  the  two 
children  crouched  together  in  a  glow  of  excitement. 

'Is  't  Uncle  Reuben?'  whispered  Louie,  pressing 
her  face  against  the  side  of  the  rocks,  and  trying  to 
look  through  the  chink  between  it  and  the  covering 
stone. 

'Aye — wi  a  lantern.  But  there's  talkin — theer's 
someone  else.     Jim  Wigson,  mebbe.' 

'If  it's  Jim  Wigson,'  said  Louie, between  her  small, 
shut  teeth,  'I'll  bite  him!' 

'  Cos  yo're  a  gell.  Gells  and  cats  bite — they  can't 
do  nowt  else !' 

Whereupon  Louie  pinched  him,  and  David,  giving 
an  involuntary  kick  as  he  felt  the  nip,  went  into  first 
a  fit  of  smothered  laughter,  and  then  seized  her  arm 
in  a  tight  grip. 

'  Keep  quiet,  conno  yo  ?  Now  they're  coomin,  an  I 
bleeve  they're  coomin  this  way  ! ' 

But,  after  another  minute's  waiting,  he  was  quite 
unable  to  obey  his  own  injunction,  and  he  crept  out  on 
the  stone  overlooking  the  precipice  to  look. 

'Coom  back!  They'll  see  yo!' cried  Louie,  in  a 
shrill  whisper ;  and  she  caught  him  by  the  ankle. 


90  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

David  gave  a  kick.  '  Let  goo ;  if  yo  do  'at  I  shall 
fall  and  be  kilt ! ' 

She  held  her  breath.  Presently,  with  an  exclama- 
tion, he  knelt  down  and  looked  over  the  edge  of  the 
great  sloping  block  which  served  them  for  roof. 

'  Wal,  I  niver  I  Theer's  nobory  bnt  Uncle  Reuben, 
an  he's  talkin  to  hissel.     Wal,  this  is  a  rum  skit ! ' 

And  he  stayed  outside  watching,  in  spite  of  Louie's 
angry  commands  to  him  to  come  back  into  the  den. 
David  had  no  fears  of  being  discovered  by  Uncle 
Reuben.  If  it  had  been  Jim  Wigson  it  would  have 
been  different. 

Presently,  on  the  path  some  sixty  feet  above  them, 
but  hidden  from  them  by  the  mass  of  tumbled  rocks 
through  which  they  had  descended,  they  heard  some- 
one puffing  and  blowing,  a  stick  striking  and  slipping 
on  the  stones,  and  weird  rays  of  light  stole  down  the 
mountain-side,  and  in  and  out  of  the  vast  blocks  with 
which  it  was  overstrewn. 

'  He's  stopt  up  theer,'  said  David,  creeping  in  under 
the  gable,  'an  I  mun  hear  what  he's  saying.  I'm 
gooin  up  nearer.     If  yo  coom  we'll  be  caught.' 

'  Yo  stoopid ! '  cried  Louie.  But  he  had  crawled  up 
the  narrow  chimney  they  had  come  down  by  in  a 
moment,  and  she  was  left  alone.  Her  spirit  failed  her 
a  little.     She  daren't  climb  after  him  in  the  dark. 

David  clambered  in  and  out,  the  fierce  wind  that 
beat  the  side  of  the  mountain  masking  whatever 
sounds  he  may  have  made,  till  he  found  himself 
directly  under  the  place  where  Reuben  Grieve  sat, 
slowly  recovering  his  breath. 

'■  0  Lord !  0  Lord !  They're  aw  reet,  Sandy — 
they're  aw  reet ! ' 

The  boy  crouched  down  sharply  under  an  over- 
hanging stone,  arrested  by  the  name — Sandy — his 
father's  name. 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  01 

Once  or  twice  since  he  came  to  Kinder  he  had 
heard  it  on  Uncle  Reuben's  lips,  once  or  twice  from 
neighbours  who  had  known  James  Grieve's  sons  in 
their  youth.  But  Sandy  had  left  the  farm  early  and 
was  little  remembered,  and  the  true  story  of  Sandy's 
life  was  unknown  in  the  valley,  though  there  were 
many  rumours.  What  the  close  and  timid  Reuben 
heard  from  Mr.  Gurney,  the  head  of  Sandy's  firm, 
after  Sandy's  death,  he  told  to  no  one  but  Hannah, 
The  children  knew  generally,  from  what  Hannah  often 
let  fall  when  she  was  in  a  temper,  that  their  mother 
was  a  disgrace  to  them,  but  they  knew  no  more,  and, 
with  the  natural  instinct  of  forlorn  creatures  on  the 
defensive,  studiously  avoided  the  subject  within  the 
walls  of  Xeedham  Farm.  They  might  question  old 
'Lias ;  they  would  suffer  many  things  rather  than 
question  their  uncle  and  aunt. 

But  David  especially  had  had  many  secret  thoughts 
he  could  not  put  away,  of  late,  about  his  parents. 
And  to  hear  his  father's  name  drojoped  like  this  into 
the  night  moved  the  lad  strangely.  He  lay  close, 
listening  with  all  his  ears,  expecting  passionately,  he 
knew  not  what. 

But  nothing  came — or  the  wind  carried  it  away. 
When  he  was  rested,  Reuben  got  up  and  began  to 
move  about  with  the  lantern,  apparently  throwing  its 
light  from  side  to  side. 

'  David  !  Louie  ! ' 

The  hoarse,  weak  voice,  strained  to  its  utmost  pitch, 
died  away  on  the  night  wind,  and  a  weird  echo  came 
back  from  the  cliffs  of  the  Downfall. 

There  Avas  no  menace  in  the  cry — rather  a  piteous 
entreaty.  The  truant  below  had  a  strange  momentary 
impulse  to  answer — to  disclose  himself.  But  it  was 
soon  past,  and  instead,  he  crept  well  out  of  reach  of 
the  rays  which  tiashe  dover  the  precipitous  ground 


92  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

about  him.  As  he  did  so  he  noticed  the  Mermaid's 
Pool,  gleaming  in  a  pale  ray  of  moonlight,  some  two 
hundred  feet  below.  A  sudden  alarm  seized  him,  lest 
Keuben  should  be  caught  by  it,  put  two  and  two 
together  and  understand. 

But  Reuben  was  absorbed  in  a  discomfort,  half 
moral,  half  superstitious,  and  nothing  else  reached 
the  slow  brain — which  was  besides  preoccupied  by 
Jim  Wigson's  suggestion.  After  a  bit,  he  picked  up 
his  stick  and  went  on  again.  David,  eagerly  watch- 
ing, tracked  him  along  the  path  which  follows  the 
ridge,  and  saw  the  light  pause  once  more  close  to  the 
Downfall. 

So  far  as  the  boy  could  see,  his  uncle  made  a  long 
stay  at  a  point  beyond  the  stream,  the  bed  of  which 
was  just  discernible,  as  a  sort  of  paler  streak  on  the 
darkness. 

'  Why,  that's  about  whar  th'  Edale  path  cooms  in,' 
thought  David,  wondering.  '  What  ud  he  think  we'd 
be  doin  theer  ?  ' 

Faint  sounds  came  to  him  in  a  lull  of  the  wind,  as 
though  Reuben  were  shouting  again — shouting  many 
times.  Then  the  light  went  wavering  on,  defining  in 
its  course  the  curved  ridge  of  the  further  moor,  till  at 
last  it  made  a  long  circuit  downwards,  disappearing 
for  a  minute  somewhere  in  the  dark  bosom  of  Kinder 
Low,  about  midway  between  earth  and  sky.  David 
guessed  that  Uncle  Reuben  must  be  searching  the 
Smithy.  Then  it  descended  rapidly,  till  finally  it 
vanished  behind  the  hill  far  below,  which  was  just 
distinguishable  in  the  cloudy  moonshine.  Uncle 
Reuben  had  gone  home. 

David  drew  a  long  breath.  But  that  patient  quest 
in  the  dark — the  tone  of  the  farmer's  call — that 
mysterious  word  Sandy,  had  touched  the  boy,  made 
him  restless.    His  mood  grew  a  little  flat,  even  a  little 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  93 

remorseful.  The  joy  of  their  great  adventure  ebbed 
a  little. 

However,  he  climbed  down  again  to  Louie,  and 
found  a  dark  elfish  figure  standing  outside  their  den, 
and  dancing  with  excitement. 

'Wouldn't  yo  like  to  ketch  us — wouldn't  yo? — 
wouldn't  yo  ?  '  screeched  the  child,  beside  herself.  She 
too  had  been  watching,  had  seen  the  light  vanish. 

'  Yo'll  have  t'  parish  up  after  yo  if  yo  doan't  howd 
your  tongue,'  said  David  roughly. 

And  creeping  into  their  den  he  relit  the  lantern. 
Then  he  pulled  out  a  watch,  borrowed  from  the  same 
friend  who  had  provided  the  lantern.  Past  nine.  Two 
hours  and  more  before  they  need  think  of  starting  down- 
wards for  the  Pool. 

Louie  condescended  to  come  in  again,  and  the  stone 
was  drawn  close.  But  how  fierce  the  wind  had  grown, 
and  how  nipping  was  the  air !  Uavid  shivered,  and 
looked  about  for  the  rugs.  He  wrapt  Louie  in  the 
horse-rug,  which  was  heaviest,  and  tucked  the  blanket 
round  himself. 

'  Howd  that  tight  round  yo,'  he  commanded,  struck 
with  an  uneasy  sense  of  responsibility,  as  he  happened 
to  notice  how  starved  she  looked,  '  and  goo  to  sleep  if 
yo  want  to.     I'll  wake  yo — I'm  gooin  to  read.' 

Louie  rolled  the  rug  round  her  chr^'salis-like,  and 
then,  disdaining  the  rest  of  David's  advice,  sat  bolt 
upright  against  the  rock,  her  wide-open  eyes  staring 
defiantly  at  all  within  their  ken. 

The  minutes  went  by.  David  sat  close  up  against 
the  lantern,  bitterly  cold,  but  reading  voraciously.  At 
last,  however,  a  sharper  gust  than  usual  made  him  look 
up  and  turn  restive.  Louie  still  sat  in  the  opposite 
corner  as  stiffly  as  before,  but  over  the  great  staring 
eyes  the  lids  had  just  fallen,  sorely  against  their 
owner's  will;  the  head  was  dropping  against  the  rock; 


94  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

the  child  was  fast  asleep.  It  occurred  to  David  she 
looked  odd ;  the  face  seemed  so  grey  and  white.  He 
instinctively  took  his  own  blanket  and  put  it  over 
her.  The  silence  and  helplessness  of  her  sleep  seemed 
to  appeal  to  him,  to  change  his  mood  towards  her,  for 
the  action  was  brotherly  and  tender.  Then  he  pushed 
the  stone  aside  and  crept  out  on  to  the  mooi\ 

There  he  stood  for  a  while,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  marking  time  to  warm  himself.  How  the 
wind  bit  to  be  sure  ! — and  it  would  be  colder  still  by 
dawn. 

The  pool  showed  dimly  beneath  him,  and  the  grue- 
some hour  was  stealing  on  them  fast.  His  heart  beat 
quick.  The  weirdness  and  loneliness  of  the  night  came 
home  to  him  more  than  they  had  done  yet.  The  old 
woman  dragged  to  her  death,  the  hooting  crowd,  the 
inexorable  parson,  the  struggle  in  the  water,  the  last 
gurgling  cry — the  vision  rose  before  him  on  the  dark 
with  an  ever  ghastlier  plainness  than  a  while  ago  on 
the  mountain-top.  How  had  'Lias  seen  her  that  the 
sight  had  changed  him  so  ?  Did  she  come  to  him 
with  her  drowned  face  and  floating  grey  hair — grip 
him  with  her  cold  hands  ?  David,  beginning  to  thrill 
in  good  earnest,  obstinately  filled  in  the  picture  with 
all  the  horrible  detail  he  could  think  of,  so  as  to 
harden  himself.  Only  now  he  wished  with  all  his 
heart  that  Louie  were  safe  at  home. 

An  idea  occurred  to  him.  He  smiled  at  it,  turned 
it  over,  gradually  resolved  upon  it.  She  would  lead 
him  a  life  afterward,  but  what  matter  ? — let  her  ! 

From  the  far  depths  of  the  unseen  valley  a  sound 
struck  upwards,  piercing  through  the  noises  of  river 
and  wind.  It  was  the  clock  of  Clough  End  church, 
tolling  eleven. 

Well,  one  could  not  stand  perishing  there  another 
hour.     He  stooped  down  and  crawled  in  beside  Louie. 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  95 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  the  added  warmth  of  David's 
blanket  conducing  thereto.  He  hung  over  her,  watch- 
ing her  breathing  with  a  merry  look,  which  gradually 
became  a  broad  grin.  It  was  a  real  shame — she  would 
be  just  mad  when  she  woke  up.  But  mermaids  were 
all  stuff,  and  Jenny  Crum  would  'skeer'  her  to  death. 
Just  in  proportion  as  the  adventure  became  more  awe- 
some and  more  real  did  the  boy's  better  self  awake. 
He  grew  soft  for  his  sister,  while,  as  he  proudly 
imagined,  iron  for  himself. 

He  crept  in  under  the  blanket  carefully  so  as  not  to 
disturb  her.  He  was  too  tired  and  excited  to  read. 
He  would  think  the  hour  out.  So  he  lay  staring  at 
the  opposite  wall  of  rock,  at  its  crevices,  and  creep- 
ing ants,  at  the  odd  lights  and  shadows  thrown  by  the 
lantern,  straining  his  eyes  every  now  and  then,  that 
he  might  be  the  more  sure  how  wide  awake  they  were. 

Louie  stretched  herself.  What  was  the  matter? 
Where  was  she  ?  What  was  that  smell  ?  She  leant 
forward  on  her  elbow.  The  lantern  was  just  going 
out,  and  smelt  intolerably.  A  cold  grey  light  was  in 
the  little  den.     What  ?     Where  ? 

A  loud  wail  broke  the  morning  silence,  and  David 
sleeping  profoundly,  his  open  mouth  just  showing 
above  the  horse-rug,  was  roused  by  a  shower  of  blows 
from  Louie's  fists.  He  stirred  uneasily,  tried  to 
escape  them  by  plunging  deeper  into  the  folds,  but 
they  pursued  him  vindictively. 

'  Give  ower ! '  he  said  at  last,  striking  back  at  ran- 
dom, and  then  sitting  up  he  rubbed  his  eyes.  There 
was  Louie  sitting  opposite  to  him,  crj'ing  great  tears 
of  rage  and  pain,  now  rocking  her  ankle  as  if  it  hurt 
her,  and  now  dealing  cuffs  at  him. 

He  hastily  pulled  out  his  watch.  Half-past  four 
o'clock ! 


96  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

'  Yo  great  gonner,  yo ! '  sobbed  Louie,  her  eyes 
blazing  at  him  through  her  tears.  '  Yo  good-for- 
nowt,  yo  muffiu-yed,  yo  donkey !'  And  so  on  through 
all  the  words  of  reviling  known  to  the  Derbyshire 
child.     David  looked  extremely  sheepish  under  them. 

Then  suddenly  he  put  his  head  down  on  his  knees 
and  shook  Avith  laughter.  The  absurdity  of  it  all — ■ 
of  their  preparations,  of  his  own  terrors,  of  the  dis- 
turbance they  had  made,  all  to  end  in  this  flat  and 
futile  over-sleeping,  seized  upon  him  so  that  he  could 
not  control  himself.  He  laughed  till  he  cried,  while 
Louie  hit  and  abused  him  and  cried  too.  But  her  cry- 
ing had  a  different  note,  and  at  last  he  looked  up  at 
her,  sobered. 

'  Howd  your  tongue  ! — an  doan't  keep  bully-raggin 
like  'at !     What's  t'  matter  wi'  yo  ?  ' 

For  answer,  she  rolled  over  on  the  rock  and  lay  on 
her  face,  howling  with  pain.  David  sprang  up  and 
bent  over  her. 

'  What  iver^s  t'  matter  wi'  yo,  Louie  ? ' 

But  she  kept  him  off  like  a  wildcat,  and  he  could 
make  nothing  of  her  till  her  passion  had  spent  itself 
and  she  was  quiet  again,  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

Then  David,  who  had  been  standing  near,  shivering, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  tried  again. 

'  ISTow,  Louie,  do  coom  home,'  he  said  appealingly. 
'  I  can  find  yo  a  place  in  t'  stable  ull  be  warmer  nor 
this.  You  be  parished  if  yo  stay  here.'  For,  ignorant 
as  he  was,  her  looks  began  to  frighten  him. 

Louie  would  have  liked  never  to  speak  to  him  again. 
The  thought  of  the  blue  cotton  and  of  her  own  lost 
chance  seemed  to  be  burning  a  hole  in  her.  But  the 
stress  of  his  miserable  look  drew  her  eyes  open  whether 
she  would  or  no,  and  when  she  saw  him  her  self-pity 
overcame  her. 

'  I  conno  walk,'  she  said,  with  a  sudden  loud  sob. 
*  It's  my  leg.' 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  97 

'  What's  wrong  wi  't  'i  '  said  David,  inspecting  it 
anxiously.  '  It's  got  tli'  cowd  in  't,  that's  what  it  is; 
it's  th'  rheumatics,  I  speck.  Tak  howd  on  me,  I'll 
help  yo  down.' 

And  with  much  coaxing  on  his  part  and  many  cries 
and  outbursts  on  hers  he  got  her  up  at  last,  and  out  of 
the  den.  He  had  tied  his  tin  box  across  his  back,  and 
Louie,  with  the  rugs  wrapped  about  her,  clung,  limp- 
ing, and  with  teeth  chattering,  on  to  his  arm.  The 
child  was  in  the  first  throes  of  a  sharp  attack  of  rheu- 
matism, and  half  her  joints  were  painful. 

That  was  a  humiliating  descent !  A  cold  grey 
morning  was  breaking  over  the  moor;  the  chimneys 
of  the  distant  cotton-towns  rose  out  of  mists,  under  a 
sky  streaked  with  windy  cloud.  The  ]\Iermaid's  Pool, 
as  they  passed  it,  looked  chill  and  mocking;  and  the 
world  altogether  felt  so  raw  and  lonely  that  David 
welcomed  the  first  sheep  they  came  across  with  a  leap 
of  the  heart,  and  positively  hungered  for  a  first  sight 
of  the  farm.  How  he  got  Louie — in  whose  cheeks  the 
fever-spots  were  rising — over  the  river  he  never  quite 
remembered.  But  at  last  he  had  dragged  her  up  the 
hill,  through  the  fields  close  to  the  house,  where  the 
lambs  were  huddling  in  tlie  nipping  dawu  beside  their 
mothers,  and  into  the  farmyard. 

The  house  rose  before  them  .grey  and  frowning. 
The  lower  windows  were  shuttered ;  in  the  upper  ones 
the  blinds  were  pulled  closely  down  ;  not  a  sign  of 
life  anywhere.  Yes ;  the  dogs  had  heard  them  !  Such 
a  barking  as  began  !  Jock,  in  his  kennel  by  the  front 
door,  nearly  burst  his  chain  in  his  joyful  efforts  to  get 
at  them  ;  while  Tib,  jumi)ing  the  half-door  of  the  out- 
house in  the  back  yard,  where  he  had  been  curled  up  in 
a  heap  of  bracken,  lea})t  about  them  and  barked  like  mad. 

Louie  sank  down  crying  and  deathly  pale  on  a  stone 
by  the  stable  door. 

VOL.   1  H 


98  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

'They'll  hear  that  fast  enoof/  said  David,  looking 
anxiously  up  at  the  shut  windows. 

But  the  dogs  went  on  barking,  and  nothing  hap- 
pened.    Ten  minutes  of  chilly  waiting  passed  away. 

'Tak  him  away,  do.-"  she  cried,  as  Tib  jumped  up 
at  her.     '  No,  I  woan't ! — I  woan't ! ' 

The  last  words  rose  to  a  shriek,  as  David  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  go  into  the  stable,  and  let  him  make 
her  a  bed  in  the  straw.  He  stood  looking  at  her  in 
despair.  They  had  always  supposed  they  would  be 
locked  out ;  but  surely  the  sleepers  inside  must  hear 
the  dogs.  He  turned  and  stared  at  the  house,  hunger- 
ing for  some  sign  of  life  in  it.  Uncle  Keuben  would 
hear  them — Uncle  Reuben  would  let  them  in ! 

But  the  blinds  of  the  top  room  never  budged. 
Louie,  with  her  head  against  the  stable-door,  and  her 
eyes  shut,  went  on  convulsively  sobbing,  while  Tibby 
sniffed  about  her  for  sympathy.  And  the  bitter  wind 
coming  from  the  Scout  whistled  through  the  yard  and 
seemed  to  cut  the  shivering  child  like  a  knife. 

'  I'll  mak  a  clunter  agen  th'  window  wi  some  gravel,' 
said  David  at  last,  in  desperation.  And  he  picked  up 
a  handful  and  threw  it,  first  cautiously,  then  reck- 
lessly. Yes  ! — at  last  a  hand  moved  the  blind — a 
hand  the  children  knew  well,  and  a  face  appeared  to 
one  side  of  it.  Hannah  Grieve  had  never  looked  so 
forbidding  as  at  that  moment.  The  boy  caught  one 
glance  of  a  countenance  pale  with  wrath  and  sleep- 
lessness ;  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  blaze  at  them  through 
the  window;  then  the  blind  fell.  He  waited  breath- 
lessly for  minute  after  minute.     Not  a  sound. 

Furiously  he  stooped  for  more  gravel,  and  flung  it 
again  and  again.  For  an  age,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  no 
more  notice  was  taken.  At  last,  there  was  an  agita- 
tion in  the  blind,  as  though  more  than  one  person  was 
behind  it.     It  was  Hannah  who  lifted  it  again;  but 


CHAP.  V  CHILDHOOD  99 

David  thought  he  caught  a  motion  of  her  anu  as 
though  she  were  holding  some  one  else  back.  The  lad 
pointed  excitedly  to  Louie. 

'  She's  took  bad  ! '  he  shouted.  '  Uncle  Reuben  ! — 
Uncle  Reuben  I — coom  down  an  see  for  yorsel.  If 
yo  let  her  in,  yo  can  keep  me  out  as  long  as  yo 
like ! ' 

Hannah  looked  at  him,  and  at  the  figure  huddled 
against  the  stable-door— looked  deliberately,  and  then, 
as  deliberately,  pulled  the  blind  down  lower  than  be- 
fore, and  not  a  sign  of  Reuben  anywhere. 

A  crimson  flame  sprang  to  David's  cheek.  He 
rushed  at  the  door,  and  while  with  one  hand  he  banged 
away  at  the  old  knocker,  he  thumped  with  the  other, 
kicking  lustily  the  while  at  the  panels,  till  Louie,  al- 
most forgetting  her  pains  in  the  fierce  excitement  of 
the  moment,  thought  he  would  kick  them  in.  In  the 
intervals  of  his  blows,  David  could  hear  voices  inside 
in  angry  debate. 

'  Vnde  Reuben  ! '  he  shouted,  stopping  the  noise 
for  a  moment,  'Uncle  Reuben,. Louie's  turned  sick! 
She's  clemmed  wi  t'  cold.  If  yo  doan't  open  th'  door, 
I'll  go  across  to  Wigson's,  and  tell  'em  as  Louie's 
parishin,  an  yo're  bein  th'  death  on  her.' 

The  bolt  shot  back,  and  there  stood  Reuben,  his  red 
hair  sticking  up  wildly  from  his  head,  his  frame  shak- 
ing with  unusual  excitement. 

'  What  are  yo  makin  that  roompus  for,  Davy  ?'  began 
Reuben,  with  would-be  severity.  '  Ha  done  wi  yo,  or 
I'll  have  to  tak  a  stick  to  yo.' 

But  the  boy  stood  akimbo  on  the  steps,  and  the  old 
farmer  shrank  before  him,  as  David's  black  eye  trav- 
elled past  him  to  a  gaunt  figure  on  the  stairs. 

'  Yo'll  tak  noa  stick  to  me,  Uncle  Reuben.  Til  not 
put  up  wi  it,  an  yo  know  it.  I'm  goin  to  bring  Louie 
in,     AVe've  bin  on  t'  moor  by  t'  Pool  lookin  for  th' 


100  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

ovvd  witch,  an  we  both  on  us  fell  asleep,  an  Louie's 
took  the  rheumatics. — Soa  theer. — Stan  out  o'  t' 
Avay.' 

And  running  back  to  Louie,  who  cried  out  as  he 
lifted  her  up,  he  half  carried,  half  dragged  her  in. 

'  Why,  she's  like  death,'  cried  Eeuben.  '  Hannah  ! 
summat  hot — at  woonst.' 

But  Hannah  did  not  move.  She  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  barring  the  way,  the  chill  morning  light 
falling  on  her  threatening  attitude,  her  grey  dishevelled 
hair  and  all  the  squalid  disarray  of  her  dress. 

'  Them  as  doos  like  beggar's  brats,'  she  said  grimly, 
'  may  fare  like  'em.     7'11  do  nowt  for  'em.' 

The  lad  came  up  to  her,  his  look  all  daring  and 
resolution — his  sister  on  his  arm.  But  as  he  met  the 
woman's  expression,  his  lips  trembled,  he  suddenly 
broke  down. 

'  iSTow,  look  here,'  he  cried,  with  a  sob  in  his  throat. 
'  I  know  we're  beggar's  brats.  I  know  yo  hate  th'  sect 
on  us.  But  I  wor  t'  worst.  I'm  t'  biggest.  Tak 
Louie  in,  and  bully-rag  me  as  mich  as  yo  like.  Louie 
— Louie!'  and  he  hung  over  her  in  a  frenzy,  '  wake  up, 
Louie ! ' 

But  the  child  was  insensible.  Fatigue,  the  excite- 
ment of  the  struggle,  the  anguish  of  movement  had 
done  their  work — she  lay  like  a  log  upon  his  arm. 

'  She's  fainted,'  said  Hannah,  recognising  the  fact 
with  a  sort  of  fierce  reluctance.  '  Tak  her  up,  an 
doan't  Stan  blatherin  theer.' 

And  she  moved  out  of  the  way. 

The  boy  gathered  up  the  thin  figure,  and,  stumbling 
over  the  tattered  rugs,  carried  her  up  by  a  superhuman 
effort. 

Eeuben  leant  against  the  passage  wall,  staring  at 
his  wife. 

'Yo're  a  hard  woman,  Hannah — a  hard  woman,'  he 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  101 

said  to  her  under  his  breath,  in  a  low,  shaken  voice. 
'  An  yo  coed  em  beggar's  brats — oh  Lord — Lord  ! ' 

'  Howd  your  tongue,  an  blow  up  t'  fire,'  was  all  the 
reply  she  vouchsafed  him,  and  Reuben  obeyed. 

INIcanwhile  upstairs  Louie  had  been  laid  on  her  bed. 
Consciousness  had  come  back,  and  she  was  moaning. 

David  stood  beside  her  in  utter  despair.  He  thought 
she  was  going  to  die,  and  he  had  done  it.  At  last  he 
sank  down  beside  her,  and  flinging  an  arm  round  her, 
he  laid  his  hot  cheek  to  her  icy  one. 

'  Louie,  doan't — doan't — I'll  tak  yo  away  from  here, 
Louie,  when  I  can.  I'll  tak  care  on  yo,  Louie. 
Doan't,  Louie, — doan't ! ' 

His  whole  being  seemed  rent  asunder  by  sympathy 
and  remorse.  Uncle  Keuben,  coming  up  with  some 
hot  gruel,  found  him  sitting  on  the  bed  beside  his 
sister,  on  whom  he  had  heaped  all  the  clothing  he 
could  find,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  VI 

From   that   night   forward,   David  looked   upon   the 
farm  and  all  his  life  there  with  other  eyes. 

Up  till  now,  in  spite  of  the  perennial  pressure  of 
Hannah's  tyrannies,  which,  however,  weighed  much 
less  upon  him  than  upon  Louie,  he  had  been — as  he 
had  let  Reuben  see — happy  enough.  The  open-air 
life,  the  animals,  his  books,  out  of  all  of  them  he  man- 
aged to  extract  a  very  fair  daily  sum  of  enjoyment. 
And  he  had  been  content  enough  with  his  daily  tasks — 
herding  the  sheep,  doing  the  rough  work  of  the  stable 
and  cow-house,  running  Aunt  Hannah's  errands  with 
the  donkey  cart  to  Clough  End,  helping  in  the  hay- 
making and   the    sheep-shearing,   or   the   driving   of 


102    ,         THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

stock  to  and  from  the  various  markets  Keuben  fre- 
quented. All  these  things  he  had  done  with  a  curious 
placidity,  a  detachment  and  yet  readiness  of  mind,  as 
one  who  lends  himself,  without  reluctance,  to  a  life 
not  his  own.  It  was  this  temper  mainly,  helped,  no 
doubt,  by  his  unusual  tastes  and  his  share  of  foreign 
blood  and  looks,  which  had  set  him  apart  from  the 
other  lads  of  his  own  class  in  the  neighbourhood.  He 
had  few  friends  of  his  own  age,  yet  he  was  not  unpop- 
ular, except,  perhaps,  with  an  overbearing  animal  like 
Jim  Wigson,  who  instinctively  looked  upon  other 
people's  brains  as  an  offence  to  his  own  muscular 
pretensions. 

But  his  Easter  Eve  struggle  with  Hannah  closed, 
as  it  were,  a  childhood,  which,  though  hard  and  love- 
less, had  been  full  of  compensations  and  ignorant  of  its 
own  worst  wants.  It  woke  in  him  the  bitterness  of 
the  orphan  dependant,  who  feels  himself  a  burden 
and  loathes  his  dependence.  That  utter  lack  of  the 
commonest  natural  affection,  in  which  he  and  Louie 
had  been  brought  up — for  Reuben's  timorous  advances 
had  done  but  little  to  redress  the  balance — had  not 
troubled  him  much,  till  suddenly  it  was  writ  so 
monstrous  large  in  Hannah's  refusal  to  take  pity  on 
the  fainting  and  agonised  Louie.  Thenceforward 
every  morsel  of  food  he  took  at  her  hands  seemed  to 
go  against  him.  They  were  paupers,  and  Aunt  Hannah 
hated  them.  The  fact  had  been  always  there,  but  it 
had  never  meant  anything  substantial  to  him  till 
now.  Now,  at  last,  that  complete  dearth  of  love,  in 
which  he  had  lived  since  his  father  died,  began  to 
react  in  revolt  and  discontent. 

The  crisis  may  have  been  long  preparing,  those 
words  of  his  uncle  as  to  his  future,  as  well  as  the 
incident  of  their  locking  out,  may  have  had  something 
to  say  to  it.     Anyway,  a  new  reflective  temper  set  in. 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  103 

The  young  immature  creature  became  self-conscious, 
began  to  feel  the  ferments  of  growth.  The  ambition 
and  the  restlessness  his  father  had  foreseen,  with 
dying  eyes,  began  to  stir. 

Reuben's  qualms  returned  upon  him.  On  the  15th 
of  May,  he  and  David  went  to  "Woodhead,  some  six- 
teen or  seventeen  miles  off,  to  receive  the  young  stock 
from  the  Yorkshire  breeders,  which  were  to  be  grazed 
on  the  farm  during  the  summer.  In  general,  David 
had  taken  the  liveliest  interest  in  the  animals,  in  the 
number  and  quality  of  them,  in  the  tariff  to  be  paid 
for  them,  and  the  long  road  there  and  back  had  been 
cheered  for  the  farmer  by  the  lad's  chatter,  and  by  the 
athletic  antics  he  was  always  playing  with  any  handy 
gate  or  tree  which  crossed  their  path. 

'  Them  heifers  ull  want  a  deal  o'  grass  puttin  into 
'era  afoor  they'll  be  wuth  onybody's  buyin,  Davy,' 
said  lieuben,  inspecting  his  mixed  herd  with  a  critical 
eye  from  a  roadside  bank,  as  they  climbed  the  first 
hill  on  their  return  journey. 

'Aye,  they're  a  poor  lot,'  returned  David,  shortly, 
and  walked  on  as  far  in  front  of  his  uncle  as  might  be, 
with  his  head  in  the  air  and  his  moody  look  fixed  on 
the  distance. 

'T'  Wigsons  ull  be  late  getting  whoam,'  began 
Reuben  again,  with  an  uneasy  look  at  the  boy.  '  Owd 
Wigson  wor  that  f\;ll  up  wi  yell  when  I  last  seed 
him  they'll  ha  a  job  to  get  him  started  straight  this 
neet.' 

To  this  remark  David  had  nothing  at  all  to  say, 
though  in  general  he  had  a  keen  neighbourly  relish  for 
the  misdeeds  of  the  Wigsons.  Reuben  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of  him.  However,  a  mile  further  on  he 
made  another  attempt : 

'Lord,  how  those  Yorkshire  breeders  did  talk  ! 
Yo'd  ha  thowt  they'd  throw  their  jaws  off  the  hinges. 


104  THE  fflSTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

An  a  lot  o'  gimcrack  notions  as  iver  wor — wi  their 
new  foods,  an  their  pills  an  strengthening  mixtnres — 
messin  wi  cows  as  though  they  wor  humans.  Why 
conno  they  leave  God  Awniighty  alone  ?  He  can 
bring  a  calvin  cow  through  beawt  ony  o'  their  med- 
dlin,  I'll  ui)howd  yo  ! ' 

But  still  not  a  word  from  the  lad  in  front.  Reuben 
mitrht  as  well  have  talked  to  the  wall  beside  him.  He 
had  grown  used  to  the  boy's  companionship,  and  the 
obstinate  silence  which  David  still  preserved  from 
hour  to  hour  as  they  drove  their  stock  homewards 
made  a  sensible  impression  on  him. 

Inside  the  house  there  was  a  constant,  though  in 
general  a  silent,  struggle  going  on  between  the  boy 
and  Hannah  on  the  subject  of  Louie.  Louie,  after  the 
escapade  of  Easter  Eve,  was  visited  with  a  sharp  at- 
tack of  inflammatory  rheumatism,  only  just  stopping 
short  of  rheumatic  fever.  Hannah  got  a  doctor,  and 
tended  her  sufficiently  while  the  worst  lasted,  partly 
because  she  was,  after  all,  no  monster,  but  only  a  com- 
monly sordid  Aud  hard-natured  woman,  and  partly 
because  for  a  day  or  two  Louie's  state  set  her  ponder- 
ing, perforce,  what  might  be  the  effect  on  Mr.  Gur- 
ney's  remittances  if  the  child  incontinently  died. 
This  thought  undoubtedly  quickened  whatever  nat- 
ural instincts  might  be  left  in  Hannah  Grieve  ;  and 
the  child  had  her  doctor,  and  the  doctor's  orders  were 
more  or  less  followed. 

But  when  she  came  downstairs  again — a  lanky, 
ghostly  creature,  much  grown,  her  fierce,  black  eyes 
more  noticeable  than  ever  in  her  pinched  face — Han- 
nah's appetite  for  '  snipin ' — to  use  the  expressive 
Derbyshire  word — returned  upon  her.  The  child  was 
almost  bullied  into  her  bed  again — or  would  have  been 
if  David  had  not  found  ways  of  preventing  it.  He 
realised  for  the  first  time  that,  as  the  young  and  active 


CRAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  105 

male  of  the  household,  he  was  extremely  necessary  to 
Hannah's  convenience,  and  now  whenever  Hannah  ill- 
treated  Louie  her  convenience  suffered.  David  dis- 
appeared. Her  errands  were  undone,  the  wood  uncut, 
and  coals  and  water  had  to  be  carried  as  they  best 
could.  As  to  reprisals,  with  a  strong  boy  of  fourteen, 
grown  very  nearly  to  a  man's  height,  Hannah  found 
herself  a  good  deal  at  a  loss.  '  Bully-raggin '  he  took 
no  more  account  of  than  of  a  shower  of  rain ;  blows 
she  instinctively  felt  it  would  have  been  dangerous 
to  attempt ;  and  as  to  deprivation  of  food,  the  lad 
seemed  to  thrive  on  hunger,  and  never  whistled  so 
loudly  as  when,  according  to  Hannah's  calculations, 
he  must  have  been  as  -keen-bitten  as  a  hawk.'  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  Hannah  was  to  some  extent 
tamed.  When  there  was  business  about  she  generally 
felt  it  expedient  to  let  Louie  alone. 

But  this  sturdy  protection  was  more  really  a  matter 
of  roused  pride  and  irritation  on  David's  part  than  of 
brotherly  love.  It  was  the  tragedy  of  Louie  Grieve's 
fate — whether  as  child  or  woman — that  she  was  not 
made  to  be  loved.  Whether  she  could  love,  her  story 
Avill  show;  but  to  love  her  when  you  were  close  to  her 
was  always  hard.  How  different  the  days  would  have 
been  for  the  moody  lad,  who  had  at  last  learnt  to 
champion  her,  if  their  common  isolation  and  depen- 
dence had  but  brought  out  in  her  towards  him  anything 
clinging — anything  confidential,  any  true  spirit  of 
comradeship  !  On  the  contrary,  while  she  was  still 
ill  in  bed,  and  almost  absolutely  dependent  on  what 
he  might  choose  to  do  for  her,  she  gibed  and  flouted 
him  past  bearing,  mainly,  no  doubt,  for  the  sake  of 
breaking  the  tedium  of  her  confinement  a  little.  And 
when  she  was  about  again,  and  he  was  defending  her 
weakness  from  Aunt  Hannah,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
she  viewed  his  proceedings  rather  with  a  malicious 


106  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

than  a  grateful  eye.  It  amused  and  excited  her  to 
see  him  stand  up  to  Hannah,  but  he  got  little  reward 
from  her  for  his  pains. 

She  was,  as  it  were,  always  watching  him  with  a 
sort  of  secret  discontent.  He  did  not  suit  her — was 
not  congenial  to  her.  Especially  was  she  exasperated 
now  more  than  ever  by  his  bookish  tastes.  Possibly 
she  was  doubly  jealous  of  his  books ;  at  any  rate,  un- 
less he  had  been  constantly  on  his  guard,  she  would 
have  hidden  them,  or  done  them  a  mischief  whenever 
she  could,  in  her  teasing,  magpie  way. 

One  morning,  in  the  grey  summer  dawn,  Louie  had 
just  wakened,  and  was  staring  sleepily  at  the  door, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  opened — very  quietly,  as 
though  pushed  by  some  one  anxious  not  to  make  a 
noise — and  Reuben's  head  looked  round  it.  Louie, 
amazed,  woke  up  in  earnest,  and  Reuben  came  stealth- 
ily in.  He  had  his  hat  and  stick  under  his  arm,  and 
one  hand  held  his  boots,  while  he  stepped  noiselessly 
in  his  stocking  feet  across  the  room  to  where  Louie 
lay — '  Louie,  are  yo  awake  ?  ' 

The  child  stared  up  at  him,  seeing  mostly  his  stub- 
ble of  red  hair,  Avhich  came  like  a  grotesque  halo 
between  her  and  the  wall.     Then  she  nodded. 

'  Doan't  let  yor  aunt  hear  nothin,  Louie.  She 
thinks  I'm  gone  out  to  th'  calves.  But,  Louie,  that 
merchant  I  towd  yo  on  came  yesterday,  an  he  wor  a 
hard  un,  he  wor — as  tough  as  nails,  a  sight  worse  nor 
owd  Croker  to  deal  wi,  ony  day  in  th'  week.  I  could 
mak  nowt  on  him — an  he  gan  me  sich  a  poor  price,  I 
darn't  tak  a  penny  on  't  from  your  aunt — noa,  I  darn't, 
Louie, — not  if  it  wor  iver  so.  She'll  be  reet  down  mad 
when  she  knaws — an  I'm  real  sorry  about  that  bit 
dress  o'  yourn,  Louie.' 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  his  spectacles  falling 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  107 

forward  on  his  nose,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  droop- 
ing— a  big  ungainly  culprit. 

For  a  second  or  two  the  child  was  quite  still,  noth- 
ing but  the  black  eyes  and  tossed  masses  of  hair 
showing  above  the  sheet.  Then  the  eyes  blinked  sud- 
denly, and  flinging  out  her  hand  at  hira  with  a  pas- 
sionate gesture,  as  though  to  push  him  away,  she 
turned  on  her  face  and  drew  the  bedclothes  over  her 
head. 

'  Louie  I '  he  said — '  Louie  ! ' 

But  she  made  no  sign,  and,  at  last,  with  a  gro- 
tesquely concerned  face,  he  went  out  of  the  room  and 
downstairs,  hanging  his  head. 

Out  of  doors,  he  found  David  already  at  work  in 
the  cowhouse,  but  as  surly  and  uncommunicative  as 
before  when  he  was  spoken  to.  That  the  lad  had 
turned  '  agen  his  wark,'  and  was  on  his  way  to  hate  the 
farm  and  all  it  contained,  was  plain  even  to  Reuben, 
Why  was  he  so  glum  and  silent — why  didn't  he  speak 
up  ?  Perhaps  he  would,  Reuben's  conscience  replied, 
if  it  were  conveyed  to  him  that  he  possessed  a  sub- 
stantial portion  of  six  hundred  pounds  ! 

The  boy  knew  that  his  uncle  watched  him — 
anxiously,  as  one  watches  something  explosive  and 
incalculable — and  felt  a  sort  of  contempt  for  himself 
that  nothing  practical  came  of  his  own  revolt  and 
discontent.  But  he  was  torn  with  indecision.  How  to 
leave  Louie — what  to  do  with  himself  without  a  far- 
thing in  the  world — whom  to  go  to  for  advice  ?  He 
thought  often  of  Mr.  Ancrum,  but  a  fierce  distaste  for 
chapels  and  ministers  had  been  growing  on  him,  and 
he  had  gradually  seen  less  and  less  of  the  man  who 
had  been  the  kind  comrade  and  teacher  of  his  early 
childhood.  His  only  real  companions  during  this  year 
of  moody  adolescence  were  his  books.     From  the  for- 


108  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

gotten  deposit  in  the  old  meal-ark  upstairs,  which  had 
yielded  '  Paradise  Lost/  he  drew  other  treasures  by 
degrees.  He  found  there,  in  all,  some  tattered  leaves 
— three  or  four  books  altogether — of  Pope's  '  Iliad,' 
about  half  of  Foxe's  '  Martyrs  ' — the  rest  having  been 
used  apparently  by  the  casual  nurses,  who  came  to 
tend  Keuben's  poor  mother  in  her  last  days,  to  light 
the  fire — a  complete  copy  of  Locke  '  On  the  Human 
Understanding,'  and  various  volumes  of  old  Calvinist 
sermons,  which  he  read,  partly  because  his  reading 
appetite  was  insatiable,  partly  from  a  half-contempt- 
uous desire  to  find  out  Avhat  it  might  be  that  Uncle 
Reuben  was  always  troubling  his  head  about. 

As  to  'Lias  Dawson,  David  saw  nothing  of  him  for 
many  long  weeks  after  the  scene  which  had  led  to  the 
adventure  of  the  pool.  He  heard  only  that  'Lias  was 
'  bad,'  and  mostly  in  his  bed,  and  feeling  a  little  guilty, 
he  hardly  knew  why,  the  lad  kept  away  from  his  old 
friend. 

Summer  and  the  early  autumn  passed  away.  Octo- 
ber brought  a  spell  of  wintry  weather;  and  one  day, 
as  he  was  bringing  the  sheep  home,  he  met  old  Mar- 
garet, 'Lias's  wife.     She  stopped  and  accosted  him. 

'Why  doan't  yo  coom  and  see  'Lias  sometimes, 
Davy,  my  lad  ?  Yo  might  leeten  him  up  a  bit,  an'  he 
wants  it,  t'  Lord  knows.  He's  been  fearfu'  bad  in  his 
sperrits  this  summer.' 

The  lad  stammered  out  some  sheepish  excuses,  and 
soon  made  his  way  over  to  Primley  Moor.  But  the 
visits  were  not  so  much  pleasure  as  usual.  'Lias  was 
very  feeble,  and  David  had  a  constant  temptation  to 
struggle  with.  He  understood  that  to  excite  'Lias,  to 
throw  him  again  into  the  frenzy  which  had  begotten 
the  vision  of  the  pool,  would  be  a  cruel  act.  But  all 
the  same  he  found  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  restrain 
himself,  to  keep  back  the  questions  which  burnt  on 
his  tongue. 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  109 

As  for 'Lias,  his  half-shut  eye  would  brighten  when- 
ever David  showed  himself  at  the  door,  and  he  Avould 
l)oint  to  a  wooden  stool  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fire. 

'  Sit  tha  down,  lad.  Margret,  gie  him  soom  tay,'  or 
'  ]\Iargret,  yo'll  just  find  him  a  bit  oatcake.' 

And  then  the  two  would  fall  upon  their  books 
together,  and  the  conversation  would  glide  impercep- 
tibly into  one  of  those  scenes  of  half-dramatic  imper- 
sonation, for  which  David's  relish  was  still  unimpaired. 

But  the  old  man  was  growing  much  weaker ;  his 
inventions  had  less  felicity,  less  range  than  of  old ;  and 
the  watchful  ]\Iargaret,  at  her  loom  in  the  corner,  kept 
an  eye  on  any  signs  of  an  undue  excitement,  and  turned 
out  David  or  any  other  visitor,  neck  and  crop,  without 
scruple,  as  soon  as  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  crippled 
seer  was  doing  himself  a  mischief.  Poor  soul !  she 
had  lived  in  this  tumult  of  'Lias's  fancies  year  after 
year,  till  the  solid  world  often  turned  about  her.  And 
she,  all  the  while,  so  simple,  so  sane — the  ordinary 
good  woman,  wdth  the  ordinary  woman's  hunger  for 
the  common  blessings  of  life — a  little  love,  a  little 
chat,  a  little  prosaic  well-being  I  She  had  had  two 
sons — they  were  gone.  She  had  been  the  proud  wife 
'o'  t'  cliverest  mon  atwixt  Sheffield  an  ]\lanchester,' 
as  Frimley  and  the  adjacent  villages  had  once  expressed 
it,  when  every  mother  that  respected  herself  sent  her 
children  to  'Lias  Dawson's  school.  And  the  myste- 
rious chances  of  a  summer  night  had  sent  home  upon 
her  hands  a  poor  incapable,  ruined  in  mind  and  body, 
who  was  to  live  henceforward  upon  her  charity,  wan- 
dering amid  the  chaotic  wreck  and  debris  of  his  former 
self. 

Well,  she  took  up  her  burden ! 

The  straggling  village  on  Frimley  Moor  was  mainly 
iuhabited  by  a  colony  of  silk  hand-loom  weavers — the 


110  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

descendants  of  French  prisoners  in  the  great  war,  and 
employed  for  the  most  part  by  a  firm  at  Leek.  Very 
dainty  work  was  done  at  Frimley,  and  very  beautiful 
stuffs  made.  The  craft  went  from  father  to  son. 
All  Margaret's  belongings  had  been  weavers ;  but  'Lias, 
in  the  pride  of  his  schoolmaster's  position,  would  never 
allow  his  wife  to  use  the  trade  of  her  youth.  When 
he  became  dependent  on  her,  Margaret  bought  a  dis- 
used loom  from  a  cousin,  had  it  mended  and  repaired, 
and  set  to  work.  Her  fingers  had  not  forgotten  their 
old  cunning;  and  when  she  was  paid  for  her  first  'cut,' 
she  hurried  home  to  'Lias  with  a  reviving  joy  in  her 
crushed  heart.  Thenceforward,  she  lived  at  her  loom  ; 
she  became  a  skilled  and  favoured  Avorker,  and  the  work 
grew  dear  to  her — first,  because  'Lias  lived  on  it,  and, 
next,  because  the  bright  roses  and  ribbon-patterns  she 
wove  into  her  costly  stuffs  were  a  perpetual  cheer  to 
her.  The  moors  might  frown  outside,  the  snow  might 
drift  against  the  cottage  walls  :  Margaret  had  always 
something  gay  under  her  fingers,  and  threw  her  shuttle 
with  the  more  zest  the  darker  and  colder  grew  the 
Derbyshire  world  without. 

Naturally  the  result  of  this  long  concentration  of 
effort  had  been  to  make  the  poor  soul,  for  whom  each 
day  was  lived  and  fought,  the  apple  of  Margaret's  eye. 
So  long  as  that  bent,  white  form  sat  beside  her  fire, 
Margaret  was  happy.  Her  heart  sank  with  every 
fresh  sign  of  age  and  weakness,  revived  with  every 
brighter  hour.  He  still  lorded  it  over  her  often,  as 
he  had  done  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity,  and  when- 
ever this  old  mood  came  back  upon  him,  Margaret 
could  have  cried  for  pleasure. 

The  natural  correlative  of  such  devotion  was  a  dry- 
ing up  of  interest  in  all  the  world  beside.  Margaret 
had  the  selfishness  of  the  angelic  woman — everything 
was  judged  as  it  affected  her  idol.     So  at  first  she 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  111 

took  no  individual  interest  in  David — he  cheered  up 
'Lias — she  had  no  other  thought  about  him. 

On  a  certain  November  day  David  was  sitting 
opposite  to  'Lias.  The  tire  burnt  between  them,  and 
on  the  tire  was  a  griddle,  whereon  Margaret  had  just 
deposited  some  oatcakes  for  tea.  The  old  man  was 
sitting  drooped  in  his  chair,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  his 
black  eyes  staring  beyond  David  at  the  wall.  David 
was  seized  with  curiosity — what  was  he  thinking 
about  ? — what  did  lie  see  ?  There  was  a  mystery,  a 
weirdness  aljout  the  figure,  about  that  hungry  gaze, 
which  tormented  him.  His  temptation  returned  upon 
him  irresistibly. 

'  'Lias,'  he  said,  bending  forward,  his  dark  cheek  flush- 
ing with  excitement,  'Louie  and  I  went  up,  Easter 
Eve,  to  t'  Pool,  but  we  went  to  sleep  an  saw  nowt. 
What  was't  yo  saw.  'Lias  ?    Did  yo  see  her  for  sure  ?' 

The  old  man  raised  his  head  frowning,  and  looked 
at  the  boy.  But  the  frown  was  merely  nervous,  he 
had  heard  nothing.  On  the  other  hand,  ]\[argaret, 
Avhom  David  had  supposed  to  be  in  the  back  kitchen, 
but  who  was  in  reality  a  few  steps  behind  him,  mend- 
ing something  which  had  gone  wrong  in  her  loom,  ran 
forward  suddenly  to  the  tire,  and  bending  over  her 
griddle  somehow  promptly  threw  down  the  tongs, 
making  a  clatter  and  commotion,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  cakes  caught,  and  old  'Lias  moved  from 
the  fender,  saying  fretfully, 

'Yo're  that  orkard  wi  things,  Margret,  yo're  like  a 
dog  dancin.' 

But  in  the  bustle  Margaret  had  managed  to  say  to 
David,  '  Howd  your  tongue,  noddle-yed,  will  yo  ?  ' 

And  so  unexpected  was  the  lightning  from  her 
usually  mild  blue  eyes  that  David  sat  dumbfounded, 
and  presently  sulkily  got  up  to  go.  ]Margaret  followed 
him  out  and  down  the  bit  of  garden. 


112  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

And  at  the  gate,  when  they  were  well  out  of  hear- 
ms:  of  'Lias,  she  fell  on  the  bov  with  a  torrent  of 
words,  gripping  him  the  while  with  her  long  thin  hand, 
so  that  only  violence  could  have  released  him.  Her 
eyes  flamed  at  him  under  the  brown  woollen  shawl  she 
wore  pinned  under  her  chin ;  the  little  emaciated  crea- 
ture became  a  fury.  What  did  he  come  there  for, 
'  moiderin  'Lias  wi  his  divihnents  ? '  If  he  ever  said  a 
word  of  such  things  again,  she'd  lock  the  door  on  him, 
and  he  might  go  to  Jenny  Crum  for  his  tea.  Not  a 
bite  or  a  sup  should  he  ever  have  in  her  house  again. 

'  I  meant  no  harm,'  said  the  boy  doggedly.  '  It  wor 
he  towd  me  about  t'  witch — it  wor  he  as  put  it  into 
our  yeds — Louie  an  me.' 

Margaret  exclaimed.  So  it  was  he  that  got  'Lias 
talking  about  the  Pool  in  the  spring !  Some  one  had 
been  '■  cankin  wi  him  about  things  they  didn't  owt ' — 
that  she  knew — '  and  she  might  ha  thowt  it  wor'  Davy. 
For  that  one  day's  '  worritin  ov  him  '  she  had  had  him 
on  her  hands  for  weeks — off  his  sleep,  and  off  his  feed, 
and  like  a  blighted  thing.  'Aye  it's  aw  play  to  yo,' 
she  said,  trembling  all  through  in  her  passion,  as  she 
held  the  boy — '  it's  aw  play  to  yo  and  your  minx  of  a 
sister.  An  if  it  means  deein  to  the  old  man  hissel,  yo 
don't  care !  "  Margaret,"  says  the  doctor  to  me  last 
week,  "  if  you  can  keep  his  mind  quiet  he  may  hang 
on  a  bit.  But  you  munna  let  him  excite  hissel  about 
owt — he  mun  tak  things  varra  easy.  He's  like  a 
wilted  leaf — nobbut  t'  least  thing  will  bring  it  down. 
He's  worn  varra  thin  like,  heart  an  lungs,  and  aw  t' 
rest  of  him."  An  d'  yo  think  I'st  sit  still  an  see  yo 
mxmler  him — the  poor  lamb — afore  my  eyes — me  as 
ha  got  nowt  else  but  him  i'  t'  wide  warld  ?  No — yo 
yoong  varlet — goo  an  ast  soom  one  else  about  Jenny 
Crum  if  yo're  just  set  on  meddlin  wi  divil's  wark — 
but  yo'll  no  trouble  my  'Lias.' 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  113 

She  took  her  hands  off  him,  and  the  boy  was  going 
away  in  a  half-sullen  silence,  when  she  caught  him 
again. 

'  Who  towd  yo  about  'Lias  an  t'  Pool,  nobbut  'Lias 
hissel  ? ' 

'  Uncle  Eeuben  towd  me  summat.' 

'  Aye  Reuben  Grieve — he  put  him  in  t'  carrier's  cart, 
an  behaved  moor  like  a  Christian  nor  his  wife — I  alius 
mind  that  o'  lleuben  Grieve,  when  foak  coe  him  a  foo. 
^Val,  I'st  tell  yo,  Davy,  an  if  iver  yo  want  to  say  a 
word  about  Jenny  Crum  in  our  house  afterwards,  yo 
mun  ha  a  gritstone  whar  your  heart  owt  to  be — that's 
aw.' 

And  she  leant  over  the  wall  of  the  little  garden, 
twisting  her  apron  in  her  old,  tremulous  hands,  and 
choking  down  the  tears  which  had  begun  to  rise. 
Then,  looking  straight  before  her,  and  in  a  low,  plain- 
tive voice,  which  seemed  to  float  on  hidden  depths  of 
grief,  she  told  her  stor}-. 

It  appeared  that  'Lias  had  been  'queer'  a  good 
while  before  the  adventure  of  the  Pool.  But,  accord- 
ing to  his  wife,  'he  wor  that  cliver  on  his  good  days, 
foak  could  mak  shift  wi  him  on  his  bad  days ; '  the 
school  still  prospered,  and  money  was  still  plentiful. 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  moorland  villages  round  were 
overtaken  by  an  epidemic  of  spirit-rapping  and  table- 
turning.  '  It  wor  sperrits  here,  sperrits  there,  sperrits 
everywhere — t'  warld  wor  gradely  swarmin  wi  em,' 
said  Margaret  bitterly.  It  was  all  started,  apparently, 
by  a  worthless  '  felly '  from  Castleton,  who  had  a  great 
reputation  as  a  medium,  and  would  come  over  on  sum- 
mer evenings  to  conduct  seances  at  Frimley  and  the 
places  near.  'Lias,  already  in  an  excitable,  over- 
worked state,  Avas  bitten  by  the  new  mania,  and  could 
think  of  nothing  else. 

One  night  he  and  the  Castleton  medium  fell  talk- 

VOL.  I  I 


114  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

ing  about  Jenny  Crum,  the  witch  of  Kinder  Scout, 
and  her  Easter  Eve  performances.  The  medium  bet 
'Lias  a  handsome  sum  that  he  would  not  dare  face 
her.  'Lias,  piqued  and  wrathful,  and  '  wi  moor  yell 
on  board  nor  he  could  reetly  stan,'  took  the  bet. 
Margaret  heard  nothing  of  it.  He  announced  on  Eas- 
ter Eve  that  he  was  going  to  a  brother  in  Edale  for 
the  Sunday,  and  gave  her  the  slip.  She  saw  no  more 
of  him  till  the  carrier  brought  home  to  her,  on  the 
Sunday  morning,  a  starved  and  pallid  object — 'gone 
clean  silly,  an  hutched  thegither  like  an  owd  man  o' 
seventy — he  bein  iifty-six  by  his  reet  years.'  With 
woe  and  terror  she  helped  him  to  his  bed,  and  in  that 
bed  he  stayed  for  more  than  a  year,  while  everything 
went  from  them — school  and  savings,  and  all  the  joys 
of  life. 

'  An  yo'll  be  wantin  to  know,  like  t'  rest  o'  'em, 
what  he  saw ! '  cried  Margaret  angrily,  facing  round 
upon  the  boy,  whose  face  was,  indeed,  one  question. 
'  "Margaret,  did  he  tell  tha  what  t'  witch  said  to  un?" 
— every  blatherin  idiot  i'  th'  parish  asked  me  that,  wi 
his  mouth  open,  till  I  cud  ha  stopped  my  ears  an  run 
wheniver  I  seed  a  livin  creetur.  What  do  I  keer  ? — 
what  doos  it  matter  to  me  what  he  saw  ?  I  doan't 
bleeve  he  saw  owt,  if  yo  ast  me.  He  wor  skeert  wi 
his  own  thinkins,  an  th'  cowd  gripped  him  i'  th' 
in'ards,  an  twisted  him  as  yo  may  twist  a  withe  of 
hay — Aye  !  it  wor  a  cruel  neet.  When  I  opened  t' 
door  i'  t'  early  mornin,  t'  garden  wor  aw  black — th'  ice 
on  t'  reservoir  wor  inches  thick.  Mony  a  year  after- 
wards t'  foak  round  here  ud  talk  o'  that  for  an  April 
frost.  An  my  poor  'Lias — lost  on  that  fearfu  Scout — 
sleepin  out  wi'out  a  rag  to  cover  him,  an  skeert  soom- 
how — t'  Lord  or  t'  Devil  knows  how  !  And  then  foak 
ud  have  me  mak  a  good  tale  out  o'  it — soomthin  to  gie 
'em  a  ticklin  down  their  back-bane — soomthin  to  pass 
an  evenin — Lord ! ' 


CHAP.  VI  ClIILDHUOI)  115 

The  wife's  voice  paused  abruptly  on  tliis  word  of 
imprecation,  or  appeal,  as  though  her  own  passion 
choked  her.  David  stood  beside  her  awkwardly,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  gravel,  wherewith  one  foot  was  play- 
ing.    There  was  no  more  sullenness  in  his  expression. 

Margaret's  hand  still  played  restlessly  with  the 
handkercliief.  Her  eyes  were  far  away,  her  mind 
absorbed  by  the  story  of  her  own  fate.  Bound  the 
moorside,  on  which  the  cottage  was  built,  there  bent 
a  circling  edge  of  wood,  now  aflame  with  all  the 
colour  of  late  autumn.  Against  its  deep  reds  and 
browns,  Margaret's  small  profile  was  thrown  out — the 
profile  already  of  the  old  woman,  with  the  meeting 
nose  and  chin,  the  hollow  cheek,  the  maze  of  wrinkles 
round  the  eyes.  Into  that  face,  worn  by  the  labour 
and  the  grief  of  the  poor — into  that  bending  figure, 
with  the  peasant  shawl  folded  round  the  head  and 
shoulders — there  had  passed  all  the  tragic  dignit}' 
which  belongs  to  the  simple  and  heartfelt  things  of 
human  life,  to  the  pain  of  helpless  affection,  to  the 
yearning  of  irremediable  loss. 

The  boy  beside  her  was  too  young  to  feel  this.  But 
he  felt  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  lad  of  the  moor- 
side could  have  felt.  There  was,  at  all  times,  a  natural 
responsiveness  in  him  of  a  strange  kind,  vibrating 
rather  to  pain  than  joy.  He  stood  by  her,  embarrassed, 
yet  drawn  to  her — waiting,  too,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
for  something  more  that  must  be  coming. 

'  An  then,'  said  Margaret  at  last,  turning  to  him, 
and  speaking  more  quietly,  but  still  in  a  kind  of  tense 
way,  '  then,  when  'Lias  wor  took  bad,  yo  know,  Davy, 
I  had  my  boys.  Did  yo  ever  hear  tell  o'  what  came  to 
'em,  Davy  ? ' 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

'Ah  I'  she  said,  catching  her  breath  painfully, 
'  they're  moast  forgotten,  is  my  boys.     'Lias  had  been 


116  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

seven  weeks  i'  his  bed,  an  I  wor  noan  so  niicli  cast 
down — i'  those  days  I  had  a  sperrit  more'n  most.  I 
thowt  th'  boys  ud  keer  for  us — we'd  gien  em  a  good 
bringin  up,  an  they  wor  boath  on  'em  larnin  trades  i' 
Manchester.  Yan  evenin — it  wor  that  hot  we  had  aw 
t'  doors  an  windows  open — theer  came  a  man  runnin 
up  fro  t'  railway.  An  my  boys  were  kilt,  Davy — boath 
on  'em — i'  Duley  Moor  Tunnel.  They  wor  coomin  to 
spend  Sunday  wi  us,  an  it  wor  an  excursion  train — I 
niver  knew  t'  reets  on  't ! ' 

She  paused  and  gently  wiped  away  her  tears.  Her 
passion  had  all  ebbed. 

<  An  I  thowt  if  I  cud  ha  got  'em  home  an  buried  'em, 
Davy,  I  could  ha  borne  it  better.  But  they  wor  aw 
crushed,  an  cut  about,  an  riddlet  to  bits — they  wudna 
let  me  ha  em.  And  so  we  kep  it  fro  'Lias.  Soomtimes 
I  think  he  knows  t'  boys  are  dead — an  then  soomtimes 
he  frets  'at  they  doan't  coom  an  see  him.  Fourteen 
year  ago !  An  I  goo  on  tellin  him  they'll  coom  soon. 
An  last  week,  when  I  towd  him  it,  I  thowt  to  mysel  it 
wor  just  th'  naked  truth ! ' 

David  leant  over  the  gate,  pulling  at  some  withered 
hollyhocks  beside.  But  when,  after  a  minute  of  chok- 
ing silence,  Margaret  caught  his  look,  she  saw,  though 
he  tried  to  hide  it,  that  his  black  eyes  were  swimming. 
Her  full  heart  melted  altogether. 

'  Oh,  Davy,  I  meant  naw  offence ! '  she  said,  catch- 
ing him  by  the  arm  again.  '  Yo're  a  good  lad,  an  yo're 
alius  a  welcome  seet  to  that  poor  creetur.  But  yo'll 
not  say  owt  to  trouble  him  again,  laddie — will  yo? 
If  he'd  yeerd  yo  just  now — but,  by  t'Lord's  blessin, 
he  did  na — he'd  ha  worked  himsel  up  fearfu' !  I'd  ha 
had  naw  sleep  wi  him  for  neets — like  it  wor  i'  th' 
spring.  Yo  munna — yo  munna !  He's  all  I  ha — his 
livin's  my  livin,  Davy — an  when  he's  took  away — why, 
I'll  mak  shift  soomhow  to  dee  too  ! ' 


CHAP,  ri  CHILDHOOD  117 

She  let  him  go,  and,  with  a  long  sigh,  she  lifted  her 
trembling  hands  to  her  head,  put  her  frilled  cap 
straight  and  her  sliawl.  She  was  just  moving  away, 
when  something  of  a  different  sort  struck  her  sensitive 
soul,  and  she  turned  again.  She  lived  for  'Lias,  but 
she  lived  for  her  religion  too,  and  it  seemed  to  her  she 
had  been  sinning  in  her  piteous  talk. 

'  Dinna  think,  Davy,'  she  said  hurriedly,  '  as  I'm 
complainin  o'  th'  Lord's  judgments.  They're  aw  mer- 
cies, if  we  did  but  know.  An  He  tempers  th'  wind — 
He  sends  us  help  when  we're  droppin  for  sorrow.  It 
worn't  for  nothin  He  made  us  all  o'  a  piece.  Theer's 
good  foak  i'  th'  warld — aye,  theer  is  I  An  what's  moor, 
theer's  soom  o'  th'  best  mak  o'  foak  gooin  about  dressed 
i'  th'  worst  mak  o'  clothes.  Yo'll  find  it  out  when  yo 
want  'em.' 

And  with  a  clearing  face,  as  of  one  who  takes  up  a 
burden  again  and  adjusts  it  anew  more  easily,  she 
walked  back  to  the  house. 

David  went  down  the  lane  homewards,  whistling 
hard.  But  once,  as  he  climbed  a  stile  and  sat  dangling 
his  legs  a  moment  on  the  top,  he  felt  his  eyes  wet 
again.  He  dashed  his  hand  impatiently  across  them. 
At  this  stage  of  youth  he  was  constantly  falling  out 
with  and  resenting  his  own  faculty  of  pity,  of  emotion. 
The  attitude  of  mind  had  in  it  a  sort  of  secret  half- 
conscious  terror  of  what  feeling  might  do  with  him  did 
he  but  give  it  head.  He  did  not  want  to  feel — feeling 
only  hurt  and  stabbed — he  wanted  to  enjoy,  to  take  in, 
to  discover — to  fling  the  wild  energies  of  mind  and 
body  into  some  action  worthy  of  them.  And  because 
he  had  no  knowledge  to  show  him  how,  and  a  wav- 
ering will,  he  suffered  and  deteriorated. 

The  Dawsons,  indeed,  became  his  close  friends.  In 
Margaret  there  had  sprung  up  a  motherly  affection  for 
the  handsome  lonely  lad ;  and  he  was  grateful.     He 


118  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

took  her  *  cuts'  down  to  the  CloughEnd  office  for  her; 
when  the  snow  was  deep  on  the  Scout,  and  Eeuben 
and  David  and  tlie  dogs  were  out  after  tlieir  slieep 
night  and  day,  the  boy  still  found  time  to  shovel  the 
snow  from  Margaret's  roof  and  cut  a  passage  for  her 
to  the  road.  The  hours  he  spent  this  Avinter  by  her 
kitchen  fire,  chatting  with  'Lias,  or  eating  havercakes, 
or  helping  Margaret  with  some  household  work,  su2> 
plied  him  for  the  first  time  with  something  of  what 
his  youth  was,  in  truth,  thirsting  for — the  common 
kindliness  of  natural  affection. 

But  certainly,  to  most  observers,  he  seemed  to  dete- 
riorate. Mr.  Ancrum  could  make  nothing  of  him. 
David  held  the  minister  at  arm's-length,  and  mean- 
while rumours  reached  him  that  'Reuben  Grieve's 
nevvy  '  was  beginning  to  be  much  seen  in  the  public- 
houses  ;  he  had  ceased  entirely  to  go  to  chapel  or  Sun- 
day school ;  and  the  local  gossips,  starting  perhaps 
from  a  natural  prejudice  against  the  sons  of  unknown 
and  probably  disreputable  mothers,  projihesied  freely 
that  the  tall,  queer-looking  lad  Avould  go  to  the  bad. 

All  this  troubled  Mr.  Ancrum  sincerely.  Even  in 
the  midst  of  some  rising  troubles  of  his  own  he  found 
the  energy  to  buttonhole  Reuben  again,  and  torment 
him  afresh  on  the  subject  of  a  trade  for  the  lad. 

Reuben,  flushed  and  tremulous,  went  straight  from 
the  minister  to  his  wife — with  the  impetus  of  Mr. 
Ancrum's  shove,  as  it  were,  fresh  upon  him.  Sitting 
opposite  to  her  in  the  back  kitchen,  while  she  peeled 
her  potatoes  with  a  fierce  competence  and  energy 
which  made  his  heart  sick  within  him,  Reuben  told 
her,  with  incoherent  repetitions  of  every  phrase,  that 
in  his  opinion  the  time  had  come  when  Mr.  Gurney 
should  be  written  to,  and  some  of  Sandy's  savings 
applied  to  the  starting  of  Sandy's  son  in  the  world. 

There   was   an   ominous   silence.     Hannah's  knife 


niAi-.  VI  CHILDHOOD  119 

flashed,  and  the  potato-peelings  fell  with  a  rapidity 
which  fairly  paralysed  Reuben.  In  liis  nervousness, 
he  let  fall  the  name  of  Mr.  Ancruni.  Then  Hannah 
broke  out.  '  Some  foo','  she  knew,  had  been  meddling, 
and  she  might  have  guessed  that  fool  was  Mr.  Ancrum. 
Instead  of  defending  her  own  position,  she  fell  upon 
lleuben  and  his  supporter  with  a  rhetoric  whereof  the 
moral  flavour  was  positively  astounding.  Standing 
with  the  potato-bowl  on  one  hip,  and  a  hand  holding 
the  knife  on  the  other,  she  delivered  her  views  as 
to  David's  laziness,  temper,  and  general  good-for-noth- 
ingness.  If  Reuben  chose  to  incur  the  risks  of  throw- 
ing such  a  young  lout  into  town-wiekodness,  with  no 
one  to  look  after  him,  let  him ;  she'd  be  glad  enough 
to  be  shut  on  him.  But,  as  to  writing  to  Mr.  Gurney 
and  that  sort  of  talk,  she  wasn't  going  to  bandy  words 
— not  she ;  but  nobod}^  had  ever  meddled  with  Hannah 
Grieve's  affairs  yet  and  found  they  had  done  well  for 
themselves. 

'An  I  wouldna  advise  yo,  Reuben  Grieve,  to  begin 
now — no,  I  wouldna.  I  gie  yo  fair  noatice.  Soa 
theer's  not  enough  for  t'  lad  to  do,  Mr.  Ancrum,  he 
thinks  ?  Perhaps  he'll  tak  th'  place  an  try  ?  I'd 
not  gie  him  as  mich  wage  as  vid  fill  his  stomach  i'  th' 
Aveek — noa,  I'd  not,  not  if  yo  wor  to  ask  me — a  bleth- 
erin  windy  chap  as  iver  I  saw.  I'd  as  soon  hear  a 
bird-clapper  preach  as  him — theer'd  be  more  sense 
an  less  noise  !  An  they're  findin  it  out  down  theer — 
we'st  see  th'  back  on  him  soon.' 

And  to  Reuben,  looking  across  the  little  scullery  at 
his  wife,  at  the  harsh  face  shaken  with  the  rage 
which  these  new  and  intolerable  attempts  of  her  hus- 
band to  dislodge  the  yoke  of  years  excited  in  her,  it 
was  as  though  like  Christian  and  Hopeful  he  were 
trying  to  get  back  into  the  Way,  and  found  that  the 
floods  had  risen  over  it. 


120  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GEIEVE        book  i 

AVhen  he  was  out  of  her  sight,  he  fell  into  a  bound- 
less perplexity.  Perhaps  she  was  right,  after  all.  INIr. 
Ancruni  was  a  meddler  and  he  an  ass.  When  next  he 
saw  David,  he  spoke  to  the  boy  harshly,  and  demanded 
to  know  where  he  went  loafing  every  afternoon. 
Then,  as  the  days  went  on,  he  discovered  that  Hannah 
meant  to  visit  his  insubordination  upon  him  in  various 
unpleasant  Avays.  There  were  certain  little  creature 
comforts,  making  but  small  show  on  the  surface  of  a 
life  of  general  abstinence  and  frugality,  but  which,  in 
the  course  of  years,  had  grown  very  important  to 
Reuben,  and  which  Hannah  had  never  denied  him. 
They  were  now  Avithdrawn.  In  her  present  state  of 
temper  with  her  better  half,  Hannah  could  not  be 
'fashed'  with  providing  them.  And  no  one  could 
force  her  to  brew  him  his  toddy  at  night,  or  put  his 
slippers  to  warm,  or  keep  his  meals  hot  and  tasty  for 
him,  if  some  emergency  among  the  animals  made  him 
late  for  his  usual  hours — certainly  not  the  weak  and 
stammering  Eeuben.  He  was  at  her  mercy,  and  he 
chafed  indescribably  under  her  unaccustomed  neglect. 

As  for  Mr.  Ancrum,  his  own  affairs,  poor  soul,  soon 
became  so  absorbing  that  he  had  no  thoughts  left  for 
David.  There  were  dissensions  growing  between  him 
and  the  '  Christian  Brethren.'  He  spoke  often  at  the 
Sunday  meetings — too  often,  by  a  great  deal,  for  the 
other  shining  lights  of  the  congregation.  But  his 
much  speaking  seemed  to  come  rather  of  restlessness 
than  of  a  full '  experience,'  so  torn,  subtle,  and  difficult 
were  the  things  he  said.  Grave  doubts  of  his  doctrine 
were  rising  among  some  of  the  'Brethren;'  a  mean 
intrigue  against  him  was  just  starting  among  others, 
and  he  himself  was  tempest-tossed,  not  knowing  from 
week  to  week  whether  to  go  or  stay. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  winter  went  on,  he  soon  perceived 
that  Reuben  Grieve's  formidable  wife  was  added  to  the 


CHAP.  VI  CHILDHOOD  121 

ranks  of  his  enemies.  She  came  to  chapel,  because  for 
a  Christian  Brother  or  Sister  to  go  anywhere  else 
would  have  been  a  confession  of  weakness  in  the  face 
of  other  critical  and  observant  communities — such,  for 
instance,  as  the  Calvinistic  Methodists,  or  the  Par- 
ticular Baptists — not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 
But  when  he  passed  her,  he  got  no  greeting  from  her ; 
she  drew  her  skirts  aside,  and  her  stony  eye  looked 
beyond  him,  as  though  tliere  were  nothing  on  the  road. 
And  the  sharp-tongued  things  she  said  of  him  came 
round  to  him  one  by  one.  Reuben,  too,  avoided  the 
minister,  who,  a  year  or  two  before,  had  brought  foun- 
tains of  refreshing  to  his  soul,  and  in  the  business  of 
the  chapel,  of  which  he  was  still  an  elder,  showed 
himself  more  inarticulate  and  confused  than  ever. 
While  David,  who  had  won  a  corner  in  Mr.  Ancrum's 
heart  since  the  days  of  their  first  acquaintance  at 
Sunday-school — David  fled  him  altogether,  and  would 
have  none  of  his  counsel  or  his  friendship.  The 
alienation  of  the  Grieves  made  another  and  a  bitter 
drop  in  the  minister's  rising  cup  of  failure. 

So  the  little  web  of  motives  and  cross-motives,  for 
the  most  part  of  the  commonest  earthiest  hue,  yet 
shot  every  here  and  there  by  a  thread  or  two  of 
heavenlier  stuff,  went  spinning  itself  the  winter 
through  round  the  unknowing  children.  The  reports 
which  had  reached  j\Ir.  Ancrum  were  true  enough. 
David  was,  in  his  measure,  endeavouring  to  '  see  life.' 
On  a  good  many  winter  evenings  the  lad,  now  nearly 
fifteen,  and  shooting  up  fast  to  man's  stature,  might 
have  been  seen  among  the  topers  at  the  '  Crooked 
Cow,'  nay,  even  lending  an  excited  ear  to  the  Secular- 
ist speakers,  who  did  their  best  to  keep  things  lively 
at  a  certain  low  public  kept  by  one  Jerry  Timmins,  a 
Radical  wag,  who  had  often  measured  himself  both  in 


122  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  i 


the  meeting-houses  and  in  the  streets  against  the 
local  pieachers,  and,  according  to  his  own  following, 
with  no  small  success.  There  was  a  covered  skittle- 
ground  attached  to  this  house  in  which,  to  the  horrid 
scandal  of  church  and  chapel,  Sunday  dances  were 
sometimes  held.  A  certain  fastidious  pride,  and  no 
doubt  a  certain  conscience  towards  Eeuben,  kept  David 
from  experimenting  in  these  performances,  which  were 
made  as  demonstratively  offensive  to  the  piovis  as  they 
well  could  be  without  attracting  the  attentions  of  the 
police. 

But  at  the  disputations  between  Timmins  and  a 
succession  of  religious  enthusiasts,  ministers  and 
others,  which  took  place  on  the  same  spot  during  the 
winter  and  spring,  David  was  frequently  present. 

N"eitlier  here,  however,  nor  at  the  '  Crooked  Cow ' 
did  the  company  feel  the  moody  growing  youth  to  be 
one  of  themselves.  He  would  sit  with  his  pint  before 
him,  silent,  his  great  black  eyes  roving  round  the  per- 
sons present.  His  tongue  was  sharp  on  occasion,  and 
his  fists  ready,  so  that  after  various  attempts  to  make 
a  butt  of  him  he  was  generally  let  alone.  He  got  what 
he  wanted — he  learnt  to  know  what  smoking  and 
drinking  might  be  like,  and  the  jokes  of  the  taproom. 
And  all  by  the  help  of  a  few  shillings  dealt  out  to  him 
this  winter  for  the  first  time  by  Eeuben,  who  gave 
them  to  him  with  a  queer  deprecating  look  and  an 
injunction  to  keep  the  matter  secret  from  Hannah. 
As  to  the  use  the  lad  made  of  them,  Eeuben  was  as 
ignorant  as  he  was  of  all  other  practical  affairs  out- 
side his  own  few  acres. 


ciiAi'.  vir  CIIILDIIO(n)  123 


CHAPTER   VII 

String  came  round  again  and  the  warm  days  of  June. 
At  Easter  time  David  liad  made  no  further  attempts 
to  meet  with  Jenny  Crum  on  her  midnight  wanderings. 
The  whole  tendency  of  his  winter's  mental  growth,  as 
well  perhaps  of  the  matters  brutally  raised  and  crudely 
sifted  in  Jerry  Timmins's  pju'lour,  had  been  towards  a 
harder  and  more  sceptical  habit  of  mind.  For  the 
moment  the  supernatural  had  no  thrill  in  it  for  an 
intelligence  full  of  contradictions.  So  the  poor  witch, 
if  indeed  she  '  walked,'  revisited  her  place  of  pain 
unobserved  of  mortal  eye. 

About  the  middle  of  June  David  and  his  uncle  went, 
as  usual,  to  Kettlewell  and  Masholme,  in  Yorkshire, 
for  the  purpose  of  bringing  home  from  thence  some  of 
that  hardier  breed  of  sheep  which  was  required  for 
the  moorland,  a  Scotch  breed  brought  down  yearly  to 
the  Yorkshire  markets  by  the  Lowland  farmers  be- 
yond the  border.  This  expedition  was  an  annual  mat- 
ter, and  most  of  the  farmers  in  the  Kinder  Valley  and 
thereabouts  joined  in  it.  They  went  together  by  train 
to  Masholme,  made  their  purchases,  and  then  drove 
their  sheep  over  the  moors  home,  filling  the  wide 
ferny  stretches  and  the  rough  upland  road  with  a 
patriarchal  wealth  of  flocks,  and  putting  up  at  night 
at  the  village  inns,  while  their  charges  strayed  at  will 
over  the  hills.  These  yearly  journeys  had  alwa^'s  been 
in  former  years  a  joy  to  David.  The  wild  freedom  of 
the  walk,  the  change  of  scene  which  every  mile  and 
every  village  brought  with  it,  the  resistance  of  the 
moorland  wind,  the  spring  of  the  moorland  turf,  every 
little  incident  of  the  road,  whether  of  hardship  or  of 


124  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

rough  excess,  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  youth^  and 
went  to  build  up  the  growing  creature. 

This  year,  however,  that  troubling  of  the  waters 
which  was  going  on  in  the  boy  was  especially  active 
during  the  JNlasholme  expedition.  He  kept  to  himself 
and  his  animals,  and  showed  such  a  gruff  unneighbourly 
aspect  to  the  rest  of  the  world  that  the  other  drivers 
first  teased  and  then  persecuted  him.  He  fought  one 
or  two  pitched  battles  on  the  way  home,  showed  him- 
self a  more  respectable  antagonist,  on  the  whole,  than 
his  assailants  had  bargained  for,  and  was  thencefor- 
ward contemptuously  sent  to  Coventry.  '■  Yoong  man,' 
said  an  old  farmer  to  him  once  reprovingly,  after  one 
of  these  'rumpuses,'  ^yor  temper  woan't  mouldy  wi' 
keepin.'  Reuben  coming  by  at  the  moment  threw  an 
unhappy  glance  at  the  lad,  whose  bruised  face  and  torn 
clothes  showed  he  had  been  fighting.  To  the  uncle's 
mind  there  was  a  Avanton,  nay,  a  ruffianly  look  about 
him,  which  was  wholly  new.  Instead  of  rebuking  the 
culprit,  Reuben  slouched  away  and  put  as  much  road 
as  possible  between  himself  and  Davy. 

One  evening,  after  a  long  day  on  the  moors,  the 
party  came,  late  in  the  afternoon,  to  the  Yorkshire 
village  of  Haworth.  To  David  it  was  a  village  like 
any  other.  He  was  already  mortally  tired  of  the 
whole  business — of  the  endless  hills,  the  company, 
the  bleak  grey  weather.  While  the  rest  of  the  party 
were  mopping  brows  and  draining  ale-pots  in  the 
farmers'  public,  he  was  employing  himself  in  aim- 
lessly kicking  a  stone  about  one  of  the  streets,  when  he 
was  accosted  by  a  woman  of  the  shopkeeping  class,  a 
decent  elderly  woman,  who  had  come  out  for  a  mouth- 
ful of  air,  with  a  child  dragging  after  her. 

*  Yoong  mester,  yo've  coom  fro  a  distance,  hannot 

yo?' 

The  woman's   tone   struck   the  boy  pleasantly  as 


CHAP.  VII  ClilLDIK^OD  125 

though  it  had  been  a  plirase  of  cheerful  nmsic.  There 
was  a  motherliness  in  it — a  something,  for  whieli, 
perhaps  all  unknown  to  himself,  his  secret  heart  was 
thirsting. 

'Fro'  Alasliolme,'  he  said,  looking  at  her  full,  so 
that  she  could  see  all  the  dark,  richly  coloured  face 
she  had  had  a  curiosity  to  see  ;  then  he  added  abruptly, 
'We're  bound  Kinder  way  wi  t'  sheep — reet  t'other 
side  o'  t'  Scout.' 

The  woman  nodded.  '  Aye,  I  know  a  good  mony  o' 
your  Kinder  foak.  They've  coom  by  here  a  mony 
year  passt.  13ut  I  doan't  know  as  I've  seen  yo  afoor. 
Yo're  nobbut  a  yoong  'un.  Eh,  but  we  get  sich  a 
sight  of  strangers  here  now,  the  yan  fairly  drives  the 
tother  out  of  a  body's  mind.' 

'  Doos  foak  coom  for  t'  summer  ? '  asked  David, 
lifting  his  eyebrows  a  little,  and  looking  round  on  the 
bleak  and  straggling  village. 

'Xoa,  they  coom  to  see  the  church.  Lor'  bless 
ye ! '  said  the  good  woman,  following  his  eyes  towards 
the  edifice  and  breaking  into  a  laugh,  '  'taint  becos  the 
church  is  onything  much  to  look  at.  'Taint  nowt  out 
o'  t'  common  that  I  knows  on.  Noa — but  they  coom 
along  o'  t'  monument,  an'  Miss  Bronte — Mrs.  Nicholls, 
as  should  be,  poor  thing — rayder.' 

There  was  no  light  of  understanding  in  David's 
face,  but  his  penetrating  eyes,  the  size  and  beauty  of 
which  she  could  not  help  observing,  seemed  to  invite 
her  to  go  on. 

'You  niver  heerd  on  our  Miss  Bronte?'  said  the 
woman,  mildly.  '  Well,  I  spose  not.  She  was  just  a 
bit  quiet  body.  Nobbody  hereabouts  saw  mich  in  her. 
But  she  wrote  bukes — tales,  yo  know — tales  about  t' 
foak  roun  here ;  an  they  do  say,  them  as  has  read  'em, 
'at  they're  terr'ble  good.  ]\Ir.  Watson,  at  t'  Post 
Office,  he's  read  'em,  and  he's  alius  promised  to  lend 


12G  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

'em  me.  But  soomhow  I  doan't  get  th'  time.  An  in 
gineral  I've  naw  moor  use  for  a  book  nor  a  coo  has  for 
clogs.  But  she's  terr'ble  famous,  is  Miss  Bronte, 
now — an  her  sisters  too,  pore  young  women.  Yo 
should  see  t'  visitors'  book  in  th'  church.  Aw  t' 
grand  foak  as  iver  wor.  They  cooms  fro  Lunnon  a 
purpose,  soom  on  'em,  an  they  just  takes  a  look  roun 
t'  place,  an  writes  their  names,  an  goos  away.  Would 
yo  like  to  see  th'  church  ? '  said  the  good-natured 
creature — looking  at  the  tall  lad  beside  her  with  an 
admiring  scrutiny  such  as  every  woman  knows  she 
may  ajoply  to  any  male.  'I'm  goin  that  way,  an  it's 
my  brother  'at  has  th'  keys.' 

David  accompanied  her  with  an  alacrity  which  would 
have  astonished  his  usual  travelling  companions,  and 
they  mounted  the  straggling  village  street  together 
towards  the  church.  As  they  neared  it  the  woman 
stopped  and,  shading  her  eyes  against  the  sunlight, 
pointed  up  to  it  and  the  parsonage. 

'Noa,  it's  not  a  beauty,  isn't  our  church.  They 
do  say  our  parson  ud  like  to  have  it  pulled  clean  down 
an  a  new  one  built.  Onyways,  they're  goin  to  clear 
th'  Brontes'  pew  away,  an  sich  a  rumpus  as  soom  o'  V 
Bradford  papers  have  bin  makin,  and  a  gradely  few  o' 
t'  people  here  too  !  I  doan't  know  t'  reets  on  't  missel, 
but  I'st  be  sorry  when  yo  conno  see  ony  moor  where 
Miss  Charlotte  an  Miss  Emily  used  to  sit  o'  Sundays 
— An  theer's  th'  owd  house.  Yo  used  to  be  'lowed  to 
see  Miss  Charlotte's  room,  where  she  did  her  writin, 
but  they  tell  me  yo  can't  be  let  in  now.  Seems  strange, 
doan't  it,  'at  ony  body  should  be  real  fond  o'  that  place  ? 
When  yo  go  by  it  i'  winter,  soomtimes,  it  lukes  that 
lonesome,  with  t'  churchyard  coomin  up  close  roun  it, 
it's  enoof  to  gie  a  body  th'  shivers.  But  I  do  bleeve, 
Miss  Charlotte  she  could  ha  kissed  ivery  stone  in  't ; 
an  they  do  say,  when  she  came  back  fro  furrin  parts, 


CHAP.  VII  CHILDHOOD  127 

she'd  sit  an  cry  for  joy,  she  wor  that  partial  to 
Haworth.  It's  a  phice  yo  do  get  to  favour  soonihow/ 
said  the  good  woman,  apologetically,  as  though  feeling 
that  no  stranger  could  justly  be  expected  to  sympathise 
"with  tlie  excesses  of  local  patriotism. 

*  Did  th'  oother  sisters  write  books  ? '  demanded 
David,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  bare  stone  house 
towards  which  the  passionate  heart  of  Charlotte  Bronte 
had  yearned  so  often  from  the  land  of  exile. 

'Bless  yo,  yes.  An  theer's  niony  foak  'at  think 
Miss  Emily  wor  a  deol  cliverer  even  nor  Miss  Char- 
lotte. Not  but  what  yo  get  a  bad  noshun  o'  Yorkshire 
folk  fro  Miss  Emily's  bukes — soa  I'm  towd.  Bit 
there's  rough  doins  on  t'  moors  soomtimes,  I'll  up- 
howd  yo!  An  ]\riss  Emily  had  eyes  like  gimlets — 
they  seed  reet  through  a  body.  Deary  me,'  she  cried, 
the  fountain  of  gossip  opening  more  and  more,  'to 
think  I  should  ha  known  'em  in  pinafores,  Mr.  Patrick 
an  aw ! ' 

And  under  the  stress  of  what  was  really  a  wonder 
at  the  small  beginnings  of  fame — a  wonder  which  much 
repetition  of  her  story  had  only  developed  in  her — 
she  poured  out  upon  her  companion  the  history  of  the 
Brontes ;  of  that  awful  winter  in  which  three  of  that 
weird  band — Emily,  Patrick,  Anne — fell  away  from 
Charlotte's  side,  met  the  death  which  belonged  to  each, 
and  left  Charlotte  alone  to  reap  the  harvest  of  their 
common  life  through  a  few  burning  years;  of  the  pub- 
lication of  the  books ;  how  the  men  of  the  Mechanics' 
Institute  (the  roof  of  which  she  pointed  out  to  him) 
went  crazy  over  'Shirley;'  how  everybody  about 
'thowt  Miss  Bronte  had  bin  puttin  ov  'era  into  prent,' 
and  didn't  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  piqued; 
how,  as  the  noise  made  by  'Jane  Eyre'  and  'Shirley' 
grew,  a  wave  of  excitement  passed  through  the  whole 
countryside,  and  people  came  from  Halifax,  and  Brad- 


128  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

ford,  and  Huddersfield — 'aye,  an  Lunnon  soomtoimes' 
— to  Haworth  church  on  a  Sunday,  to  see  the  quiet 
body  at  her  prayers  who  had  made  all  the  stir ;  how 
Mr.  Nicholls,  the  curate,  bided  his  time  and  pressed 
his  wooing ;  how  he  won  her  as  liachel  was  won  ;  and 
how  love  did  but  open  the  gate  of  death,  and  the  fiery 
little  creature — exhausted  by  such  an  energy  of  living 
as  had  possessed  her  from  her  cradle — sank  and  died 
on  the  threshold  of  her  new  life.  All  this  Charlotte 
Bronte's  townswoman  told  simply  and  garrulously, 
but  she  told  it  well  because  she  had  felt  and  seen. 

'She  wor  so  sma'  and  nesh;  nowt  but  a  midge. 
Theer  Avas  no  lasst  in  her.  Aye,  when  I  heerd  the 
bell  tolling  for  Miss  Charlotte  that  Saturday  mornin,' 
said  the  speaker,  shaking  her  head  as  she  moved  away 
towards  the  church,  '  I  cud  ha  sat  down  and  cried  my 
eyes  out.  But  if  she'd  ha  seen  me  she'd  ha  nobbut 
said,  "  Martha,  get  your  house  straight,  an  doan't  fret 
for  me  !"  She  had  sich  a  sperrit,  had  Miss  Charlotte. 
Well,  now,  after  aw,  I  needn't  go  for  t'  keys,  for  th' 
church  door's  open.  It's  Bradford  early  closin  day, 
yo  see,  an  I  dessay  soom  Bradford  f oak's  goin  over.' 

So  she  marched  him  in,  and  there  indeed  was  a 
crowd  in  the  little  ugly  church,  congregated  especially 
at  the  east  end,  where  the  Brontes'  pew  still  stood 
awaiting  demolition  at  the  hands  of  a  reforming  vicar. 
As  David  and  his  guide  came  up  they  found  a  young 
weaver  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  sallow  oblong  face, 
black  hair,  high  collars,  and  a  general  look  of  Lord 
Byron,  haranguing  those  about  him  on  the  iniquity  of 
removing  the  pews,  in  a  passionate  undertone,  wliich 
occasionally  rose  high  above  the  key  prescribed  by 
decorum.  It  was  a  half-baked  eloquence,  sadly  liable 
to  bathos,  divided,  indeed,  between  sentences  ringing 
with  the  great  words  'genius'  and  'fame,'  and  others 
devoted  to  an  indignant  contemplation  of  the  hassocks 


CHAP.  VII  CHILDHOOD  129 

in  the  old  pews,  'the  toucliing  and  well-worn  imple- 
ments of  prayer,'  to  (juote  his  handsome  description 
of  them,  Avhich  a  meddlesome  parson  was  about  to 
'hurl  away,'  out  of  mere  hatred  for  intellect  and  con- 
tempt of  the  popular  voice. 

But,  half-baked  or  no,  David  rose  to  it  greedily. 
After  a  few  moments'  listening,  he  pressed  up  closer 
to  the  speaker,  his  broad  shoulders  already  making 
themselves  felt  in  a  crowd,  his  eyes  beginning  to  glow 
with  the  dissenter's  hatred  of  parsons.  In  the  full 
tide  of  discourse,  however,  the  orator  was  arrested  by 
an  indignant  sexton,  who,  coming  quickly  up  the 
church,  laid  hold  upon  him. 

'No  speechmakin  in  the  church,  if  you  please,  sir. 
Move  on  if  yo're  goin  to  th'  vestry,  sir,  for  I'll  have  to 
shut  up  directly.' 

The  young  man  stared  haughtily  at  his  assailant, 
and  the  men  and  boys  near  closed  up,  expecting  a  row. 
But  the  voice  of  authority  within  its  own  gates  is 
strong,  and  the  champion  of  outraged  genius  collapsed. 
The  whole  flock  broke  up  and  meekly  followed  the 
sexton,  Avho  strode  on  before  them  to  the  vestry. 

'William's  a  rare  way  wi  un,'  said  his  companion 
to  David,  following  her  brother's  triumph  with  looks 
of  admiration.  '  I  thowt  that  un  wud  ha  bin  harder 
to  shift.' 

David,  however,  turned  upon  her  with  a  frown. 
''Tis  a  black  shame,'  he  said;  'why  conno  they  let  t' 
owd  pew  bide  ? ' 

'Ah,  weel,'  said  the  woman  with  a  sigh,  'as  I  said 
afore,  I'st  be  reet  sorry  when  Miss  Charlotte's  seat's 
gone.  But  yo  conno  ha  brawlin  i'  church.  William's 
reet  enough  there.' 

And  beginning  to  be  alarmed  lest  she  should  be 
raising  up  fresh  trouble  for  William  in  the  person  of 
this    strange,  foreign-looking  lad,  with  his  eyes  like 

VOL.   I  K 


130  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  x 

'live  birds,'  she  hurried  him  on  to  the  vestrj,  where 
the  visitors'  books  were  being  displayed.  Here  the 
Byronic  young  man  was  attempting  to  pick  a  fresh 
quarrel  with  the  sexton,  by  way  of  recovering  himself 
with  his  party.  But  he  took  little  by  it ;  the  sexton 
was  a  tough  customer.  AVhen  the  local  press  was 
shaken  in  his  face,  the  vicar's  hireling,  a  canny, 
weather-beaten  Yorkshireman,  merely  replied  with  a 
twist  of  the  mouth, 

'Aye,  aye,  th'  newspapers  talk — there'd  be  soom- 
body  goin  hoongry  if  they  didn't ; '  or — '  Them  'at  has 
to  eat  th'  egg  knaws  best  whether  it  is  addled  or  no — • 
to  my  thinkin,'  and  so  on  through  a  string  of  similar 
aphorisms  which  finally  demolished  his  antagonist. 

David  meanwhile  was  burning  to  be  in  the  fray. 
He  thought  of  some  fine  Miltonic  sayings  to  hurl  at 
the  sexton,  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  get 
them  out.  In  the  presence  of  that  indifferent,  sharp- 
faced  crowd  of  townspeople  his  throat  grew  hot  and 
dry  whenever  he  thought  of  speaking. 

While  the  Bradford  party  struggled  out  of  the 
church,  David,  having  somehow  got  parted  from  the 
woman  who  had  brought  him  in,  lingered  behind,  be- 
fore that  plain  tablet  on  the  wall,  whereat  the  crowd 
which  had  just  gone  out  had  been  worshipping. 

Emily,  aged  29. 

Anne,  aged  27. 

Charlotte,  in  the  39th  year  of  her  age. 

The  church  had  grown  suddenly  quite  still.  The 
sexton  was  outside,  engaged  in  turning  back  a  group 
of  Americans,  on  the  plea  that  visiting  hours  Avere 
over  for  the  day.  Through  the  wide  open  door,  the 
fading  yellow  light  streamed  in,  and  with  it  a  cool 


CHAi'.  VII  CHILDHOOD  131 

wind  which  chased  little  eddies  of  dust  about  the  pave- 
ment. In  the  dusk  the  three  names — black  on  the 
white — stood  out  with  a  stern  and  yet  piteous  distinct- 
ness. The  boy  stood  there  feeling  the  silence — the 
tomb  near  by — the  wonder  and  pathos  of  fame,  and 
all  that  thrill  of  undefined  emotion  to  which  youth 
yields  itself  so  hungrily. 

Tlie  sexton  startled  him  by  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.  'Time  to  go  home,  yoong  man.  ]\[y  sister 
she  told  me  to  say  good  neet  to  yer,  and  she  wishes 
yo  good  luck  wi  your  journey.  Where  are  yo  puttin 
up  ? ' 

'At  the  "Brown  Bess,"'  murmured  the  boy  ungra- 
ciously, and  hurried  out.  But  the  good  man,  uncon- 
scious of  repulse  and  kindly  disposed  towards  his 
sister's  waif,  stuck  to  him,  and,  as  they  walked  down 
the  churchyard  together,  the  difference  between  the 
manners  of  official  and  those  of  private  life  proved  to 
be  so  melting  to  the  temper  that  even  David's  began 
to  yield.  And  a  little  incident  of  the  walk  mollified 
him  completely.  As  they  turned  a  corner  they  came 
upon  a  bit  of  waste  land,  and  there  in  the  centre  of  an 
admiring  company  was  the  sexton's  enemy,  mounted 
on  a  bit  of  wall,  and  dealing  out  their  deserts  in  fine 
style  to  those  meddling  parsons  and  their  underlings 
who  despised  genius  and  took  no  heed  of  the  relics  of 
the  mighty  dead. 

The  sexton  stopped  to  listen  when  they  were  nearly 
out  of  range,  and  was  fairly  carried  away  by  the  '  go ' 
of  the  orator. 

*  Doan't  he  do  it  nateral ! '  he  said  wnth  enthusiasm 
to  David,  after  a  passage  specially  and  unflatteringly 
devoted  to  himself.  'Lor'  bless  yo,  it  don't  hurt  me. 
But  I  do  loike  a  bit  o'  good  speakin,  'at  I  do.  If  fine 
worrds  wor  penny  loaves,  that  yoong  gen'leman  ud  get 
a  livin  aisy !     An  as  for  th'  owd  pew,  I  cud  go  skrikin 


132  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

about  th'  streets  mysel,  if  it  ud  do  a  ha'porth  o' 
good.' 

David's  brow  cleared,  and,  by  the  time  they  had 
gone  a  hundred  yards  further,  instead  of  fighting  the 
good  man,  he  asked  a  favour  of  him. 

'D'  yo  think  as  theer's  onybody  in  Haworth  as 
woukl  lend  me  a  seet  o'  yan  o'  Miss  Bronte's  tales  for 
an  hour  ? '  he  said,  reddening  furiously,  as  they 
stopped  at  the  sexton's  gate. 

'  Why  to  be  sure,  mon,'  said  the  sexton  cheerily, 
pleased  with  the  little  opening  for  intelligent  patron- 
age. '  Coom  your  ways  in,  and  Ave'U  see  if  we  can't 
oblige  yo.  I've  got  a  tidy  lot  o'  books  in  my  parlour, 
an  I  can  give  yo  "  Shirley,"  I  know.' 

David  went  into  the  stone-built  cottage  with  his 
guide,  and  Avas  shown  in  the  little  musty  front  room  a 
bookcase  full  of  books  which  made  his  eyes  gleam 
with  desire.  The  half-curbed  joy  and  eagerness  he 
showed  so  touched  the  sexton  that,  after  inquiring  as 
to  the  lad's  belongings,  and  remembering  that  in  his 
time  he  had  enjoyed  many  a  pipe  and  'glass  o'  yell' 
with  '  owd  Eeuben  Grieve '  at  the  '  Brown  Bess,'  the 
worthy  man  actually  lent  him  indefinitely  three  pre- 
cious volumes — '  Shirley,'  '  Benjamin  Franklin's  Auto- 
biography,' and  '  Nicholas  Nickleby.' 

David  ran  olf  hugging  them,  and  thenceforward  he 
bore  patiently  enough  with  the  days  of  driving  and 
tramping  which  remained,  for  the  sake  of  the  long 
evenings  when  in  some  lonely  corner  of  moor  and 
wood  he  lay  full  length  on  the  grass  revelling  in  one 
or  other  of  his  new  possessions.  He  had  a  voracious 
way  of  tearing  out  the  heart  of  a  book  first  of  all, 
and  then  beginning  it  again  Avith  a  different  and  a 
tamer  curiosity,  lingering,  tasting,  and  digesting.  By 
the  time  he  and  Eeuben  reached  home  he  had  rushed 
through  all  three  books,  and  his  mind  Avas  full  of  them. 


ciiAi'.  VII  CIIll.Dllnol)  133 

'Shirley'  and  'Nicholas  Nickleby '  were  the  first 
novels  of  modern  life  he  had  ever  laid  hands  on,  and 
before  he  had  finished  them  he  felt  them  in  his  veins 
like  now  wine.  The  real  world  had  been  to  him  for 
months  sonu'tliiug  sickeningly  narrow  and  empty, 
from  which  at  times  he  had  escaped  with  passion  into 
a  distant  dream-life  of  poetry  and  history.  Now  the 
walls  of  this  real  world  were  suddenly  pushed  back  as 
it  were  on  all  sides,  and  there  was  an  inrush  of  crowd, 
excitement,  and  delight.  Human  beings  like  those  he 
heard  of  or  talked  with  every  day — factory  hands  and 
mill-owners,  parsons,  squires,  lads  and  lasses — the 
Yorkes,  and  Eobert  ]\Ioore,  Squeers,  Smike,  Kate 
Nickleby  and  Newman  Noggs,  came  by,  looked  him 
in  the  eyes,  made  him  take  sides,  compare  himself 
with  them,  join  in  their  fights  and  hatreds,  pity  and 
exult  with  them.  Here  was  something  more  disturb- 
ing, persoiial,  and  stimulating,  than  that  mere  imagi- 
native relief  he  had  been  getting  out  of  'Paradise 
Lost,'  or  the  scenes  of  the  'Jewish  Wars ' ! 

By  a  natural  transition  the  mental  tumult  thus 
roused  led  to  a  more  intense  self-consciousness  than 
any  he  had  yet  known.  In  measuring  himself  with 
the  world  of  '  Shirley  '  or  of  Dickens,  he  began  to 
realise  the  problem  of  his  own  life  with  a  singular 
keenness  and  clearness.  Then — last  of  all — the  record 
of  Franklin's  life, — of  the  steady  rise  of  the  ill-treated 
printer's  devil  to  knowledge  and  power — filled  him 
with  an  urging  and  concentrating  ambition,  and  set 
his  thoughts,  endowed  with  a  new  heat  and  nimble- 
ness,  to  the  practical  unravelling  of  a  practical  case. 

They  reached  home  again  early  on  a  May  day. 
As  he  and  Eeuben,  driving  their  new  sheep,  mounted 
the  last  edge  of  the  moor  which  separated  them  from 
home,  the  Kinder  Valley  lay  before  them,  sparkling 


134  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  i 

in  a  double  radiance  of  morning  and  of  spring.  David 
lingered  a  minute  or  two  behind  his  uncle.  What  a 
glory  of  light  and  freshness  in  the  air — what  soaring 
larks — what  dipping  swallows  !  And  the  scents  from 
the  dew-steeped  heather — and  the  murmur  of  the  blue 
and  glancing  stream ! 

The  boy's  heart  went  out  to  the  valley — and  in  the 
same  instant  he  put  it  from  him.  An  indescribable 
energy  and  exultation  took  possession  of  him.  The 
tide  of  will  for  which  he  had  been  waiting  all  these 
months  had  risen  ;  and  for  the  first  time  he  felt  swell- 
ing within  him  the  power  to  break  with  habit,  to  cut 
his  way. 

But  what  first  step  to  take  ?  Whom  to  consult  ? 
Suddenly  he  remembered  Mr.  Ancruni,  first  with 
shame,  then  with  hope.  Had  he  thrown  away  his 
friend  ?  Rumour  said  that  things  were  getting  worse 
and  worse  at  chapel,  and  that  Mr.  Ancrum  ^vas  going 
to  Manchester  at  once. 

He  ran  down  the  slopes  of  heather  towards  home 
as  though  he  would  catch  and  question  Mr.  Ancrum 
there  and  then.  And  Louie  ?  Patience  !  He  would 
settle  everything.  Meanwhile,  he  was  regretfully  per- 
suaded that  if  you  had  asked  Miss  Bronte  what  could 
be  done  with  a  creature  like  Louie  she  would  have  had 
a  notion  or  two. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

'Reach  me  that  book,  Louie,'  said  David  perempto- 
rily ;  '  it  ull  be  worse  for  yo  if  yo  don't.' 

The  brother  and  sister  were  in  the  Smithy.  Louie 
was  squatting  on  the  ground  with  her  hands  behind 
her,  her  lips  sharply  shut  as  though  nothing  should 
drag  a  word  out  of  them,  and  her  eyes  blazing  defiance 


CHA1-.  Via  CIIILDIIOOD  135 

at  David,  who  liud  lier  by  the  shoulder,  and  looked  to 
the  full  as  tierce  as  she  looked  provoking. 

'Find  it!'  was  all  she  said.  He  had  been  absent 
for  a  few  minutes  after  a  sheep  that  had  got  into  diffi- 
culties in  the  Ked  Brook,  and  when  he  returned,  his 
volume  of  KoUin's  '  Ancient  History ' — 'Lias's  latest 
loan — which  he  had  imprudently  forgotten  to  take 
with  him,  had  disappeared. 

David  gave  her  an  angry  shake,  on  which  she  top- 
pled over  among  the  fallen  stones  with  an  exasperating 
limpness,  and  lay  there  laughing. 

'Oh,  very  well,'  said  David,  suddenly  recovering 
himself;  'yo  keep  yor  secret.  I'st  keep  mine,  that's 
aw.' 

Louie  lay  quiet  a  minute  or  two,  laughing  artifi- 
cially at  intervals,  while  David  searched  the  corners 
of  the  Smithy,  turning  every  now  and  then  to  give  a 
stealthy  look  at  his  sister. 

The  bait  took.  Louie  stopped  laughing,  sat  up,  put 
herself  straight,  and  looked  about  her. 

'  Yo  hain't  got  a  secret,'  she  said  coolly ;  '  I'm  not 
to  be  took  in  wi  snuff  that  way.' 

^Very  well,'  said  David  indifferently,  'then  I  haven't.' 

And  sitting  down  near  the  ])an,  he  took  out  one  of 
the  little  boats  from  the  hole  near,  and  began  to  trim 
its  keel  here  and  there  with  his  knife.  The  occupation 
seemed  to  be  absorbing. 

Louie  sat  for  a  while,  sucking  at  a  lump  of  sugar 
she  had  swept  that  morning  into  the  07nnium  gatherum 
of  her  pocket.  At  last  she  took  up  a  little  stone  and 
threw  it  across  at  David. 

'  What's  your  silly  old  secret  about  then  ?  ' 

*  Where's  my  book,  then  ?  '  replied  David,  holding 
up  the  boat  and  looking  with  one  eye  shut  along  the 
keel. 

'Iv  I  gie  it  yer,  an  yor  secret  ain't  wo'th  it,  I'll 


136  THE   UISTOKY  OF  DA\'ID  (JRIEYE        book  i 

put  soom  o'  that  Avatter  down  yor  neckhole/  said 
Louie,  nodding  towards  the  place. 

'It'  you  don't  happen  iind  yorsel  in  th'  pan  fust/ 
remarked  David  unmoved. 

Louie  sucked  at  her  sugar  a  little  longer,  with  her 
hands  round  her  knees.  She  had  thrown  off  her  hat, 
and  the  May  sun  struck  full  on  her  hair,  on  the  glossy 
brilliance  of  it,  and  the  natural  curls  round  the  tem- 
ples which  disguised  a  high  and  narrow  brow.  She 
no  longer  wore  her  hair  loose.  In  passionate  emula- 
tion of  Annie  Wigson,  she  had  it  plaited  behind,  and 
had  begged  an  end  of  blue  ribbon  of  Mrs.  Wigson  to 
tie  it  with,  so  that  the  beautiful  arch  of  the  head 
showed  more  plainly  than  before,  while  the  black  eyes 
and  brows  seemed  to  have  gained  in  splendour  and 
effectiveness,  from  their  simpler  and  severer  setting. 
One  could  see,  too,  the  length  of  the  small  neck  and 
of  the  thin  falling  shoulders.  It  was  a  face  now 
wdiich  made  many  a  stranger  in  the  Clough  End 
streets  stop  and  look  backward  after  meeting  it.  Not 
so  much  because  of  its  beauty,  for  it  was  still  too  thin 
and  starved-looking  for  beauty,  as  because  of  a  singu- 
lar daring  and  brilliance,  a  sense  of  wild  and  yet 
conscious  power  it  left  behind  it.  The  child  had 
grown  a  great  piece  in  the  last  year,  so  that  her  knees 
"were  hardly  decently  covered  by  the  last  year's  cotton 
frock  she  wore,  and  her  brown  sticks  of  arms  were  far 
beyond  her  sleeves.  David  had  looked  at  her  once  or 
twice  lately  with  a  new  kind  of  scrutiny.  He  decided 
that  she  was  a  'rum-looking'  creature,  not  the  least 
like  anybody  else's  sister,  and  on  the  whole  his  raw 
impression  was  that  she  was  plain. 

'  How'll  I  know  yo'll  not  cheat  ?  '  she  said  at  last, 
getting  up  and  surveying  him  with  her  arms  akimbo. 

'Can't  tell,  I'm  sure,'  was  all  David  vouchsafed. 
'  Yo  mun  find  out.' 


tuAi-.  Via  (HII.DIIOOD  137 

Louie  studied  liiin  threateningly. 

'Weel,  I'd  be  even  wi  yo  sooiuhow,'  was  her  final 
conclusion  ;  and  disappearing  through  the  ruined  door- 
way, she  ran  down  the  slope  to  where  one  of  the  great 
mill-stones  lay  hidden  in  the  heather,  and  diving  into 
its  central  hole,  produced  the  book,  keenly  watched 
the  while  by  David,  who  took  mental  note  of  the  hid- 
ing-place. 

'  Naw  then,'  she  said,  walking  up  to  him  with  her 
hands  behind  her  and  the  book  in  them,  '  tell  me  your 
secret.' 

David  first  forcibly  abstracted  the  book  and  made 
believe  to  box  her  ears,  then  went  back  to  his  seat  and 
his  boat. 

'  Go  on,  can't  yo  ! '  exclaimed  Louie,  after  a  minute, 
stamping  at  him. 

David  laid  down  his  boat  deliberately. 

'Well,  yo  won't  like  it,'  he  said;  'I  know  that. 
But — I'm  off  to  Manchester,  that's  aw — as  soon  as  I 
can  goo ;  as  soon  as  iver  I  can  hear  of  onything.  An 
I'm  gooin  if  I  don't  hear  of  onything.  I'm  gooin  ony- 
ways  ;  I'm  tired  o'  this.     So  now  yo  know.' 

Louie  stared  at  him. 

<  Yo  ain't ! '  she  said,  passionately,  as  though  she 
were  choking. 

David  instinctively  put  up  his  hands  to  keep  her  off. 
He  thought  she  Avould  have  fallen  upon  him  there  and 
then  and  beaten  him  for  his  '  secret.' 

But,  instead,  she  flung  away  out  of  the  Smithy,  and 
David  was  left  alone  and  in  amazement.  Then  he  got 
up  and  went  to  look,  stirred  with  the  sudden  fear  that 
she  might  hajre  run  off  to  the  farm  with  the  neAvs  of 
what  he  had  been  saying,  which  would  have  precipi- 
tated matters  unpleasantly. 

Xo  one  was  to  be  seen  from  outside,  either  on  the 
moor  path  or  in  the  fields  beyond^  and  she  could  not 


138  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

possibly  have  got  out  of  sight  so  soon.  80  he  searched 
among  tlie  heather  and  the  bilberry  hummocks,  till  he 
caught  sight  of  a  bit  of  print  cotton  in  a  hollow  just 
below  the  quaint  stone  shooting-hut,  built  some  sixty 
years  ago  on  the  side  of  the  Scout  for  the  convenience 
of  sportsmen.  David  stalked  the  cotton,  and  found 
her  lying  prone  and  with  her  hat,  as  usual,  firmly  held 
down  over  her  ears.  At  sight  of  her  something  told 
him  very  plainly  he  had  been  a  brute  to  tell  her  his 
news  so.  There  was  a  strong  moral  shock  which  for 
the  moment  transformed  him. 

He  went  and  lifted  her  up  in  spite  of  her  struggles. 
Her  face  was  crimson  with  tears,  but  she  hit  out  at 
him  wildly  to  i)revent  his  seeing  them.  '  Now,  Louie, 
look  here,'  he  said,  holding  her  hands,  '  I  didna  mean 
to  tell  yo  short  and  sharp  like  that,  but  yo  do  put  a 
body's  laack  up  so,  there's  no  bearin  it.  Don't  take  on, 
Louie.  I'll  coom  back  when  I've  found  soomthin,  an 
take  you  away,  too,  niver  fear.  Theer's  lots  o'  things 
gells  can  do  in  IVIanehester — tailorin,  or  machinin,  or 
dressmakin,  or  soomthin  like  that.  But  yo  must  get 
a  bit  older,  an  I  must  find  a  place  for  us  to  live  in,  so 
theer's  naw  use  fratchin,  like  a  spiteful  hen.  Yo  must 
bide  and  I  must  bide.  But  I'll  coom  back  for  yo,  I 
swear  I  will,  and  we'll  get  shut  on  Aunt  Hannah,  and 
live  in  a  little  place  by  ourselves,  as  merry  as  larks.' 

He  looked  at  her  appealingly.  Her  head  was  turned 
sullenly  away  from  him,  her  thin  chest  still  heaved 
with  sobs.  But  Avhen  he  stopped  speaking  she  jerked 
round  upon  him. 

'Leave  me  behint,  an  I'll  murder  her!' 

The  child's  look  was  demoniacal.  '  No,  yo  won't,' 
said  David,  laughing.  '  I'  th'  fust  place.  Aunt  Hannah 
could  settle  a  midge  like  yo  wi  yan  finger.  I'  th'  sec- 
ond, hangin  isn't  a  coomfortable  way  0'  deein.  Yo 
wait   till  I   coom  for  yo,  an  when  we'st  ha  got  reet 


CHAP.    VIII 


C'HILDIlooi)  139 


away,  an'  can  just  laugh  in  her  face  if  she  riles  us, — 
that  '11  sjnte  her  niich  moor  nor  niurderin.' 

The  black  eyes  gleamed  uncannily  for  a  moment 
and  the  sobbing  ceased.  But  the  gleam  passed  away, 
and  the  child  sat  staring  at  the  moorland  distance, 
seeing  nothing.  There  was  such  an  unconscious  ani- 
mal pain  in  the  attitude,  the  pain  of  the  creature  that 
feels  itself  alone  and  deserted,  that  David  watched 
her  in  a  puzzled  silence.  Louie  was  always  mysterious, 
whether  in  her  rages  or  her  griefs,  but  he  had  never 
seen  her  sob  quite  like  this  before.  He  felt  a  sort 
of  strangeness  in  her  fixed  gaze,  and  with  a  certain 
timidity  he  put  out  his  arm  and  laid  it  round  her 
shoulder.  Still  she  did  not  move.  Then  he  slid  up 
closer  in  the  heather,  and  kissed  her.  His  heart, 
which  had  seemed  all  frostbound  for  months,  melted, 
and  that  hunger  for  love — home-love,  mother-love — 
•which  was,  perhaps,  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  moody 
complex  youth,  found  a  voice. 

'  Louie,  couldn't  yo  be  nice  to  me  soomtimes — 
couldn't  yo  just  take  an  interest,  like,  yo  know — as  if 
yo  cared  a  bit — couldn't  yo  ?  Other  gells  do.  Vm  a 
brute  to  yo,  I  know,  often,  but  yo  keep  aggin  an 
teasin,  an  theer's  niver  a  bit  o'  peace.  Look  here,  Loo, 
yo  give  up,  an  I'st  give  np.  Theer's  nobbut  us  two — 
nawbody  else  cares  a  ha'porth  about  the  yan  or  the 
tother — coom  along !  yo  give  np,  an  I'st  give  up.' 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously.  There  was  a  new  man- 
liness in  his  tone,  answering  to  his  growing  manliness 
of  stature.  Two  slow  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks, 
but  she  said  notliing.  She  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her. 
She  blinked,  furiously  fighting  with  her  tears,  and  at 
last  she  put  up  an  impatient  hand  which  left  a  long 
brown  streak  across  her  miserable  little  face. 

'  Yo  havn't  got  no  trade,'  she  said.  '  Yo'll  be 
clemmed.' 


140  THE   IIISTOEY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

David  -withdrew  his  arm,  and  gulped  down  his  re- 
buff. 'jSTo,  I  slia'n't/ he  said.  'ISTow  you  just  listen 
here.'  And  he  described  how,  the  day  before,  he  had 
been  to  see  Mr.  Ancrum,  to  consult  him  about  leaving 
Kinder,  and  what  had  come  of  it. 

He  had  been  just  in  time.  Mr.  Ancrum,  worn,  ill, 
and  harassed  to  death,  had  been  cheei-ed  a  little  during 
his  last  days  at  Clough  End  by  the  appearance  of 
David,  very  red  and  monosyllabic,  on  his  doorstep. 
The  lad's  return,  as  he  soon  perceived,  Avas  due  simply 
to  the  stress  of  his  own  affairs,  and  not  to  any  knowl- 
edge of  or  sympathy  with  the  minister's  miseries. 
But,  none  the  less,  there  was  a  certain  balm  in  it  for 
Mr.  Ancrum,  and  they  had  sat  long  discussing  matters. 
Yes,  the  minister  was  going — would  look  out  at  Man- 
chester for  an  opening  for  David,  in  the  bookselling 
trade  by  preference,  and  would  write  at  once.  But 
Davy  must  not  leave  a  quarrel  behind  him.  He  must, 
if  possible,  get  his  uncle's  consent,  which  Mr.  Ancrum 
thought  would  be  given. 

'  I'm  willing  to  lend  you  a  hand,  Davy,'  he  had  said, 
'  for  yovi're  on  the  way  to  no  trade  but  loafing  as  you 
are  now ;  but  square  it  with  Grieve.  You  can,  if  j-ou 
don't  shirk  the  trouble  of  it.' 

Whereupon  Davy  had  made  a  wry  face  and  said 
nothing.  But  to  Louie  he  expressed  himself  plainly 
enough. 

'I'll  not  say  owt  to  oather  on  'em,'  he  said, pointing 
to  the  chimneys  of  the  farm,  'till  the  day  I  bid  'em 
good-bye.  Uncle  Eeuben,  mebbe,  ud  be  for  givin  me 
somethin  to  start  wi,  an  Aunt  Hannah  ud  be  for 
cloutin  him  over  the  head  for  thinkin  of  it.  No,  I'll 
not  be  beholden  to  yan  o'  them.  I've  got  a  shillin  or 
two  for  my  fare,  and  I'll  keep  mysel.' 

'What  wages  uU  yo  get?'  inquired  Louie  sharply. 

'Nothing  very  fat,  that's  sure,'  laughed  David.     'If 


CHAP.    VIH 


CHILDHOOD  141 


Mr.  Ancrum  can  do  as  he  says,  an  find  me  a  place  in 
a  book-shop,  they'll,  mebbe,  gie  me  six  shilliu  to  begin 


wi.' 


'An  what  ull  yo  do  wi  'at?' 

'  Live  on't,'  replied  David  briefly, 

'  Yo  conno,  I  tell  yo  !  Yo'll  ha  food  an  firin,  cloos, 
an  lodgin  to  pay  out  o't.     Yo  conno  do  't — soa  theer.' 

Louie  looked  him  up  and  down  defiantly.  David 
was  oddly  struck  with  the  practical  knowledge  her 
remark  showed.  How  did  such  a  wild  imp  know  any- 
thing about  the  cost  of  lodging  and  firing  ? 

'I  tell  yo  I'll  live  on't,'  he  replied  with  energy; 
'I'll  get  a  room  for  half  a  crown — two  shillin,  p'r'aps 
— an  I'll  live  on  sixpence  a  day,  see  if  I  don't.' 

'  See  if  yo  do ! '  retorted  Louie,  '  clemm  on  it  more 
like.' 

'That's  all  yo  know  about  it,  miss,'  said  David,  in  a 
tone,  however,  of  high  good  humour ;  and,  stretching 
one  of  his  hands  down  a  little  further  into  his  trousers 
pocket,  he  drew  out  a  paper-covered  book,  so  that 
just  the  top  of  it  appeared.  '  Yo're  alius  naggin  about 
books.  \\W\ ;  I  tell  yo,  I've  got  an  idea  out  o'  thissen 
\ill  be  worth  shillins  a  week  to  me.  It's  about  Benja- 
min Franklin.  Never  yo  mind  who  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin wor  ;  but  he  wor  a  varra  cute  soart  of  a  felly ;  an 
when  he  wor  yoong,  an  had  nobbut  a  few  shillins  a 
week,  he  made  shift  to  save  soom  o'  them  shillins, 
becos  he  found  he  could  do  without  eatin  Jlesli  meat, 
an  that  wi  bread  an  meal  an  green  stuff,  a  mon  could 
do  very  well,  an  save  soom  brass  every  week.  When 
I  go  to  ^lanchester,'  contimied  David  emphatically,  '  I 
shall  niver  touch  meat.  I  shall  buy  a  bag  o'  oatmeal 
like  Grand  fey  ther  Grieve  lived  on,  boil  it  for  mysel, 
wi  a  sup  o'  milk,  perhaps,  an  soom  salt  or  treacle  to 
gi  it  a  taste.  An  I'll  buy  apples  an  pears  an  oranges 
cheap  soomwhere,  an  store  'em.     Yo  mun  ha  a  deal  o' 


142  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

fruit  wlien  yo  doan't  ha  meat.  Foiirpence ! '  cried 
Davy,  his  enthusiasm  rising,  '  I'll  live  on  thruppe^ice  a 
day,  as  sure  as  yo're  sittin  theer !  Seven  thruppences 
is  one  an  nine;  lodgin,  two  shillin — three  an  nine. 
Two  an  three  left  over,  for  cloos,  firin,  an  pocket 
money.  Why,  I'll  be  rich  before  yo  can  look  roun ! 
An  then,  o'  coorse,  they'll  not  keep  me  long  on  six 
shillins  a  week.  In  the  book-trade  I'll  soon  be  wuth 
ten,  an  moor  ! ' 

And,  springing  up,  he  began  to  dance  a  sort  of 
cut  and  shuffle  before  her  out  of  sheer  spirits.  Louie 
surveyed  him  with  a  flushed  and  sparkling  face.  The 
nimbleness  of  David's  wits  had  never  come  home  to 
her  till  now. 

'  What  ull  I  earn  when  I  coom  ? '  she  demanded 
abruptly. 

David  stopped  his  cut  and  shuffle,  and  took  critical 
stock  of  his  sister  for  a  moment. 

'Now,  look  here,  Louie,  yo're  goin  to  stop  where 
yo  are,  a  good  bit  yet,'  he  replied  decidedly.  'Yo'll 
have  to  wait  two  year  or  so — moor  'n  one,  onyways,' 
he  went  on  hastily,  warned  by  her  start  and  fierce 
expression.  *  Yo  know,  they  can  ha  th'  law  on  yo,' 
and  he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  towards  the 
farm.  'Boys  is  all  reet,  but  gells  can't  do  nothink  till 
they're  sixteen.  They  mun  stay  wi  th'  foak  as  browt 
'em  up,  and  if  they  run  away  afore  their  sixteenth 
birthday — they  gets  put  in  prison.' 

David  poured  out  his  legal  fictions  hastily,  three 
parts  convinced  of  them  at  any  rate,  and  watched 
eagerly  for  their  effect  on  Louie. 

Slie  tossed  her  head  scornfully.  'Doan't  b'lieve  it. 
Yo're  jest  tellin  lees  to  get  shut  o'  me.  Nex  summer 
if  yo  doan't  send  for  me,  I'll  run  away,  whativer  yo 
may  say.     So  yo  know.' 

'  You're  a  tormentin  thing ! '  exclaimed  David,  ex- 


ciiAi".  vm  CHILDHOOD  143 

asperated,  and  began  savagely  to  kick  stones  down  the 
hill.  Then,  recovering  himself,  he  came  and  sat  down 
beside  her  again. 

'  I  doan't  want  to  get  shut  on  yo,  Louie.  But  yo 
'A'on't  understand  nothin.' 

He  stopped,  and  began  to  bite  at  a  stalk  of  heather, 
by  way  of  helping  himself.  J  lis  mind  was  full  of  vague 
and  yet  urgent  thoughts  as  to  wliat  became  of  girls  in 
large  towns  with  no  one  to  look  after  them,  things  he 
had  heard  said  at  the  public-house,  things  he  had  read. 
He  had  never  dreamt  of  leaving  Louie  to  Aunt  Hannah's 
tender  mercies.  Of  course  he  must  take  her  away  when 
he  could.  She  was  his  charge,  his  belonging.  But  all 
the  same  she  was  a  'limb';  in  his  opinion  she  always 
would  be  a  'limb.'  How  could  he  be  sure  of  her  get- 
ting work,  and  who  on  earth  was  to  look  after  her 
when  he  was  away  ? 

Suddenly  Louie  broke  in  on  his  perplexities. 

'I'll  go  tailorin,' she  cried  triumphantly.  'Now  I 
know— it  wor  t'  Wigson's  cousin  Em'ly  went  to  Man- 
chester; an  she  earned  nine  shillin  a  week — nine 
shillin  I  tell  yo,  an  found  her  own  thread.  Yo'll  be 
takin  ten  shillin,  yo  say,  nex  year?  an  I'll  be  takin 
nine.  That's  nineteen  shillin  fur  th'  two  on  us.  Isit^t 
it  nineteen  shillin  ?  '  she  said  peremptorily,  seizing 
his  arm  with  her  long  fingers. 

'  Well,  I  dessay  it  is,'  said  David,  reluctantly,  '  An 
precious  tired  yo'll  be  o'  settin  stitchin  mornin,  noon, 
an  neet.     Like  to  see  yo  do  't.' 

'I'd  do  it  fur  nine  shillin,'  she  said  doggedly,  and 
sat  looking  straight  before  her,  with  wide  glittering 
eyes.  She  understood  from  David's  talk  that,  what 
with  meal,  ai)i)les,  and  greenstuff,  your  '  eatin '  need 
cost  you  nothing.  There  would  be  shillings  and  shil- 
lings to  buy  things  with.  The  child  who  never  had  a 
copper  but  what  Uncle  Keuben  gave  her,  who  passed 


144  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

her  whole  existence  hi  greedily  coveting  the  unattain- 
able and  in  chahng  iinder  the  rule  of  an  iron  aud 
miserly  thrift,  felt  suddenly  intoxicated  by  this  golden 
prospect  of  illimitable  'buying.'  And  what  could 
possibly  prevent  its  coming  true  ?  Any  fool — such  as 
'  Wigson's  Em'ly  ' — could  earn  nine  shillings  a  week  at 
tailoring ;  and  to  make  money  at  your  stomach's  ex- 
pense seemed  suddenly  to  put  you  in  possession  of  a 
bank  on  which  tlie  largest  drawings  were  possible.  It 
all  looked  so  ingenious,  so  feasible,  so  wholly  within 
the  grip  of  that  indomitable  will  the  child  felt  tense 
within  her. 

So  the  two  sat  gazing  out  over  the  moorland.  It 
was  the  first  summer  day,  fresh  and  timid  yet,  as 
though  the  world  and  the  sun  were  still  ill-acquainted. 
Down  below,  over  the  sparkling  brook,  an  old  thorn 
was  quivering  in  the  warm  breeze,  its  bright  thin 
green  shining  against  the  brown  heather.  The  larches 
alone  had  as  yet  any  richness  of  leaf,  but  the  sycamore- 
buds  glittered  in  the  sun,  and  the  hedges  in  the  lower 
valley  made  wavy  green  lines  delightful  to  the  eye. 
A  warm  soft  air  laden  with  moist  scents  of  earth  and 
plant  bathed  the  whole  mountain-side,  and  played  with 
Louie's  hair.  Nature  wooed  them  with  her  best,  and 
neither  had  a  thought  or  a  look  for  her. 

Suddenly  Louie  sprang  up. 

'  Theer's  Aunt  Hannah  shoutin.  I  mun  goo  an  get 
t'  coos.' 

David  ran  down  the  hill  with  her. 

'  What'll  yo  do  if  I  tell  ?  '  she  inquired  maliciously 
at  the  bottom. 

'  If  yo  do  I  shall  cut  at  yance,  an  yo'll  ha  all  the 
longer  time  to  be  by  yoursen.' 

A  darkness  fell  over  the  girl's  hard  shining  gaze. 
She  turned  away  abruptly,  then,  when  she  had  gone  a 
few  steps,  turned  and  came  back  to  where  David  stood 


CHAP.  VIII  flllLDIIOOl)  145 

whistling  and  calling  for  the  dogs.  She  caught  him 
suddenly  from  behind  round  the  neck.  Naturally  he 
thought  she  was  up  to  some  mischief,  and  struggled 
away  from  her  Avith  an  angry  exclamation.  But  she 
held  him  tight  and  thrust  something  hard  and  sweet 
against  his  lips.  Involuntarily  his  mouth  opened  and 
admitted  an  enticing  cake  of  butter-scotch.  She 
rannued  it  in  with  her  wiry  little  hand  so  that  he  al- 
most choked,  and  then  with  a  shrill  laugh  she  turned 
and  fled,  leaping  down  the  heather  between  the 
boulders,  across  the  brook,  over  the  wall,  and  out  of 
sight. 

David  was  left  behind,  sucking.  The  sweetness  he 
was  conscious  of  was  not  all  in  the  mouth.  Never 
that  he  could  remember  had  Louie  shown  him  any 
such  mark  of  favour. 

Next  day  David  was  sent  down  with  the  donke}^- 
cart  to  Clough  End  to  bring  up  some  Aveekly  stores  for 
the  family,  Hannah  specially  charging  him  to  call  at 
the  post-office  and  inquire  for  letters.  He  started 
about  nine  o'clock,  and  the  twelve  o'clock  dinner 
passed  by  without  his  reappearance. 

When  she  had  finished  her  supply  of  meat  and  suet- 
pudding,  after  a  meal  during  which  no  one  of  the 
three  persons  at  table  had  uttered  a  word,  Louie  ab- 
ruptly pushed  her  plate  back  again  towards  Hannah. 

'  David  ! '  was  all  she  said. 

'Mind  your  manners,  miss,'  said  Hannah,  angrily. 
'Them  as  cooms  late  gets  nowt.'  And,  getting  up, 
she  cleared  the  table  and  put  the  food  away  with  even 
greater  rapidity  than  usual.  The  kitchen  was  no 
sooner  quite  clear  than  the  donkey-cart  was  heard  out- 
side, and  David  appeared,  crimsoned  with  heat,  and 
panting  from  the  long  tug  uphill,  through  which  he 
had  just  dragged  the  donkey. 

VOL.   I  L 


146  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

He  carried  a  letter,  which  he  put  down  on  the  table. 
Then  he  looked  round  the  kitchen. 

'Aunt's  put  t'  dinner  away,'  said  Louie,  shortly, 
"cos  yo  came  late.' 

David's  expression  changed.  '  Then  nex  time  she 
wants  owt,  she  can  fetch  it  fro  Clough  End  hersel,'  he 
said  violently,  and  went  out. 

Hannah  came  forward  and  laid  eager  hands  on  the 
letter,  which  was  from  London,  addressed  in  a  clerk's 
hand. 

'  Louie  ! '  she  called  imperatively,  '  tak  un  out  soom 
bread-an-drippin.' 

Louie  put  some  on  a  plate,  and  went  out  with  it  to 
the  cowhouse,  where  David  sat  on  a  stool,  occupying 
himself  in  cutting  the  pages  of  a  number  of  the  Vege- 
tarian News,  lent  him  in  Clough  End,  with  trembling 
hands,  while  a  fierce  red  spot  burnt  in  either  cheek. 

'Tak  it  away!'  he  said,  almost  knockiug  the  plate 
out  of  Louie's  hands ;  '  it  chokes  me  to  eat  a  crumb  o' 
hers.' 

As  Louie  was  bearing  the  plate  back  through  the 
yard.  Uncle  Reuben  came  by.  '  What's — what's  'at?' 
he  said,  peering  shortsightedly  at  what  she  held. 
Every  month  of  late  Eeuben's  back  had  seemed  to 
grow  rounder,  his  sight  less,  and  his  wits  of  less  prac- 
tical use. 

'  Summat  for  David,'  said  Louie,  shortly,  '  'cos  Aunt 
Hannah  woan't  gie  him  no  dinner.  But  he  woan't 
ha  it.' 

Reuben's  sudden  look  of  trouble  was  unmistakable. 

'Whar  is  he?' 

'I'  th'  coo-house.' 

Reuben  went  his  way,  and  found  tlie  dinnerless  boy 
deep,  or  apparently  deep,  in  recipes  for  vegetable  soups. 

'What  made  yo  late,  Davy?'  he  asked  him,  as  he 
stood  over  him. 


CHAP.  VIII  CIIILDIIOOI)  147 

David  had  more  than  half  a  mind  not  to  answer, 
but  at  last  he  jerked  out  tiercely,  '  Waitiu  for  th' 
second  post,  fust ;  then  t'  donkey  fell  down  half  a 
mile  out  o'  t'  town,  an  th'  things  were  spilt.  There 
was  nobody  about,  an'  I  had  a  job  to  get  'un  up  at  a'.' 

Reuben  nervously  thrust  his  hands  far  into  his  coat- 
pockets. 

'  Cooin  wi  me,  Davy,  an  I'st  mak  yur  aunt  gie  yer 
yur  dinner.' 

'  I  wouldn't  eat  a  morsel  if  she  went  down  on  her 
bended  knees  to  me,'  the  lad  broke  out,  and,  springing 
up,  he  strode  sombrely  through  the  yard  and  into  the 
fields. 

Reuben  went  slowly  back  into  the  house.  Hannah 
was  in  tlie  parlour — so  he  saw  through  the  half-opened 
door.  He  went  into  the  room,  which  smelt  musty  and 
close  from  disuse.  Hannah  was  standing  over  the  open 
drawer  of  an  old-fashioned  corner  cupboard,  carefully 
scanning  a  letter  and  enclosure  before  she  locked 
them  up. 

'  Is  't  Mr.  Gurney's  money  ? '  Reuben  said  to  her, 
in  a  queer  voice. 

She  was  startled,  not  having  heard  him  come  in, 
but  she  put  what  she  held  into  the  drawer  all  the  more 
deliberately,  and  turned  the  key. 

'Ay,  't  is.' 

Reuben  sat  himself  down  on  one  of  the  hard  chairs 
beside  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  light 
streaming  through  the  shutters  Hannah  had  just 
opened  streamed  in  on  his  grizzling  head  and  face 
working  with  emotion. 

'  It's  stolen  money,'  he  said  hoarsely.  '  Yo're  stealin 
it  fro  Davy.' 

Hannah  smiled  grimly,  and  withdrew  the  key. 

'  I'm  paying  missel  an  yo,  Reuben  Grieve,  for  t'  keep 
o'  two  wuthless  brats  as  cost  moor  nor  they  pays,'  she 


148  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

said,  with  an  accent  which  somehoAv  sent  a  shiver 
through  Reuben.  '  I  don't  keep  udder  f  oaks'  childer 
fur  nothin.' 

'  Yo've  had  moor  nor  they  cost  for  seven  year,'  said 
Reuben,  with  the  same  thick  tense  utterance.  '  Yo 
shoukl  let  Davy  ha  it,  an  gie  him  a  trade.' 

Hannah  walked  up  to  the  door  and  shut  it. 

*  I  should,  should  I  ?  An  who'll  pay  for  Louie — 
for  your  luvely  limb  of  a  niece  ?  It  'ud  tak  about  that,' 
and  she  pointed  grimly  to  the  drawer,  '  to  coover  what 
she  wastes  an  spiles  i'  t'  yeer.' 

'  Yo  get  her  work,  Hannah.  Her  bit  an  sup  cost 
yo  most  nothin.  I  cud  wark  a  bit  moor — soa  cud 
yo.  Yo're  hurtin  me  i'  mi  conscience,  Hannah — yo're 
coomin  atwixt  me  an  th'  Lord  ! ' 

He  brought  a  shaking  hand  down  on  the  damask 
table-cloth  among  the  wool  mats  and  the  chapel  hymn- 
books  which  adorned  it.  His  long,  loose  frame  had 
drawn  itself  up  with  a  certain  dignity. 

'  Ha  done  wi  your  cantin  ! '  said  Hannah  under  her 
breath,  laying  her  two  hands  on  the  table,  and  stoop- 
ing down  so  as  to  face  him  with  more  effect.  The 
phrase  startled  Reuben  with  a  kind  of  horror.  What- 
ever words  might  have  passed  between  them,  never 
yet  that  he  could  remember  had  his  wife  allowed  her- 
self a  sneer  at  his  religion.  It  seemed  to  him  sud- 
denly as  though  he  and  she  were  going  fast  downhill 
— slipping  to  perdition,  because  of  Sandy's  six  hun- 
dred pounds. 

But  she  cowed  him — she  always  did.  She  stayed  a 
moment  in  the  same  bent  and  threatening  position, 
coercing  him  with  angry  eyes.  Then  she  straight- 
ened herself,  and  moved  away. 

*  Let  t'  lad  tak  hisself  oft'  if  he  wants  to,'  she  said, 
an  iron  resolution  in  her  voice.  'I  told  yo  so  afore — 
I  woan't  cry  for  'im.     Rut  as  long  as  Louie's  here,  an 


CHAP.    VI 11 


CIIII-DIMIOI)  149 


I  ha  to  keep  her,  I'll  want  that  money,  an  every  penny 
on't.     If  it  bean't  i)ai(l,  she  may  go  too  ! ' 

'Yo'd  not  turn  her  out,  Hannah'/'  cried  Reuben, 
instinctively  putting  out  an  arm  to  feel  that  the  door 
was  closed. 

'^7<e'd  not  want  for  a  livin,'  replied  Hannah,  with 
a  bitter  sneer  ;  '  she's  her  mither's  child.' 

Reuben  ro.se  slowly,  shaking  all  ovei\  He  opened 
the  door  with  difficulty,  groped  his  way  out  of  the 
front  passage,  then  went  heavily  through  the  yard 
and  into  the  fields.  There  he  .wandered  by  himself 
for  a  coui)le  of  hours,  altogetlier  forgetting  some 
newly  dropped  lambs  to  which  he  had  been  anxiously 
attending.  For  months  past,  ever  since  his  conscience 
had  been  roused  on  the  subject  of  his  brother's  chil- 
dren, the  dull,  incapable  man  had  been  slowly  recon- 
ceivins:  the  woman  with  whom  he  had  lived  some  five- 
and-twenty  years,  and  of  late  the  process  had  been 
attended  with  a  kind  of  agony.  The  Hannah  Martin 
he  had  married  had  been  a  hard  body  indeed,  but  re- 
spectable, upright,  with  the  same  moral  instincts  as 
himself.  She  had  kept  the  farm  together — he  knew 
that ;  he  could  not  have  lived  without  her,  and  in  all 
practical  respects  she  had  been  a  good  and  industrious 
wife.  He  had  coveted  her  industry  and  her  strong 
will ;  and,  having  got  the  use  of  them,  he  had  learnt 
to  put  up  with  her  contempt  for  him,  and  to  fit  his 
softer  nature  to  hers.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
there  had  always  been  certain  conditions  implied  in 
this  subjection  of  his,  and  that  she  was  breaking  them. 
He  could  not  have  been  fetching  and  carrying  all  these 
years  for  a  woman  who  could  go  on  wilfully  appropri- 
ating money  that  did  not  belong  to  her, — who  could 
even  speak  with  callous  indifference  of  the  prospect 
of  turning  out  her  niece  to  a  life  of  sin. 

He  thought  of  Sandy's  money  with  loathing.      It 


150  THE   HISTOllY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

was  like  the  cursed  stuff  that  Achan  had  brought  into 
the  camp — an  evil  leaven  fermenting  in  their  common 
life,  and  raising  monstrous  growths. 

Keuben  Grieve  did  not  demand  much  of  himself ;  a 
richer  and  more  spiritual  nature  would  have  thought 
his  ideals  lamentably  poor.  But,  such  as  tliey  were, 
the  past  year  had  proved  that  he  could  not  fall  below 
them  without  a  dumb  anguish,  without  a  sense  of 
shutting  himself  out  from  grace.  He  felt  himself— 
by  his  fear  of  his  wife — made  a  partner  in  Hannah's 
covetousness,  in  Hannah's  cruelty  towards  Sandy's 
children.  Already,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  face  of 
Christ  was  darkened,  the  fountain  of  grace  dried  up. 
All  those  appalling  texts  of  judgment  and  reprobation 
he  had  listened  to  so  often  in  chapel,  protected  against 
them  by  that  warm  inward  certainty  of  'election,' 
seemed  to  be  now  pressing  against  a  bared  and  jeop- 
ardised soul. 

But  if  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Gurney,  Hannah  would 
never  forgive  him  till  her  dying  day;  and  the  thought 
of  making  her  his  enemy  for  good  put  him  in  a  cold 
sweat. 

After  much  pacing  of  the  upper  meadows  he  came 
heavily  down  at  last  to  see  to  his  lambs.  Davy  was 
just  jumping  the  wall  on  to  his  uncle's  land,  having 
apparently  come  down  the  Frimley  path.  When  he 
saw  his  uncle  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
began  to  whistle,  and  came  on  with  a  devil-may-care 
swing  of  the  figure.  They  met  in  a  gateway  between 
two  fields. 

'Whar  yo  been,  Davy  ?'  asked  Eeuben,  looking  at 
him  askance,  and  holding  the  gate  so  as  to  keep 
him. 

'  To  Dawson's,'  said  the  boy,  sharply. 

Reuben's  face  brightened.  Then  the  lad's  empty 
stomach   must   have   been  filled;    for  he  knew  that 


CHAP.  IX  CIIII.DIIool)  151 

'  Dawsons  '  were  kind  to  liim.  He  ventured  to  look 
at  liiin  more  directly,  and,  as  he  did  so,  something  in 
the  attitude  of  the  proud  handsome  stripling  reminded 
him  of  Sandy — Sandy,  in  llie  days  of  his  youth,  com- 
ing down  to  show  his  prosi)erous  self  at  the  farm.  lie 
put  his  large  soil-stained  hand  on  David's  shoulder. 

'  Goo  your  ways  in,  Davy.  I'll  see  yo  ha  your 
reets.' 

David  opened  his  eyes  at  him,  astounded.  There  is 
nothing  more  startling  in  human  relations  than  tlie 
strong  emotion  of  weak  peojjle. 

Reuben  would  have  liked  to  say  something  else,  but 
his  lips  opened  and  shut  in  vain.  The  boy,  too,  was 
hopelessly  embarassed.  At  last,  Reuben  let  the  gate 
fall  and  walked  off,  with  downcast  head,  to  where,  in 
the  sheep-pen,  he  had  a  few  hours  before  bound  an 
orphan  lamb  to  a  refractory  foster-mother.  The  fos- 
ter-mother's resistance  had  broken  down,  she  was 
lying  patiently  and  gently  while  the  thin  long-legged 
creature  sucked;  when  it  was  frightened  away  by 
Reuben's  approach  she  trotted  bleating  after  it.  In 
his  disturbed  state  of  feeling  the  parallel,  or  rather 
the  contrast,  between  the  dumb  animal  and  the  woman 
struck  home. 


CHAPTER   IX 

But  the  crisis  which  had  looked  so  near  delayed ! 

Poor  Reuben  !  Tlie  morning  after  his  sudden  show 
of  spirit  to  David  he  felt  himself,  to  his  own  miserable 
surprise,  no  more  courageous  than  he  had  been  before 
it.  Yet  the  impression  made  had  gone  too  deep  to 
end  in  nothingness.  He  contracted  a  habit  of  getting 
by  himself  in  the  fields  and  puzzling  his  brain  with 
figures — an  occupation  so  unfamiliar  and  exhausting 


152  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

that  it  wore  him  a  good  deal ;  and  Hannah,  when  he 
came  in  at  night,  would  wonder,  with  a  start,  whether 
he  were  beginning  *to  break  up.'  But  it  possessed 
him  more  and  more.  Hannah  would  not  give  up  the 
money,  but  David  must  have  his  rights.  How  could 
it  be  done  ?  For  the  first  time  Reuben  fell  to  calcu- 
lation over  his  money  matters,  which  he  did  not  ask 
Hannah  to  revise.  But  meanwhile  he  lived  in  a  state 
of  perpetual  inward  excitement  which  did  not  escape 
his  wife.  She  could  get  no  clue  to  it,  however,  and 
became  all  the  more  forbidding  in  the  household  the 
more  she  was  invaded  by  this  wholly  novel  sense  of 
difficulty  in  managing  her  husband. 

Yet  she  was  not  without  a  sense  tliat  if  she  could 
but  contrive  to  alter  her  ways  with  the  children  it 
would  be  well  for  her.  Mr.  Gurney's  cheque  was 
safely  put  away  in  the  Clough  End  bank,  and  clearly 
her  best  policy  would  have  been  to  make  things  toler- 
able for  the  two  persons  on  whose  proceedings — if 
they  did  but  know  it  I — the  arrival  of  future  cheques 
in  some  measure  depended.  But  Hannah  had  not  the 
cleverness  which  makes  the  successful  hypocrite. 
And  for  some  time  past  there  had  been  a  strange 
unmanageable  change  in  her  feelings  towards  Sandy's 
orphans.  Since  Reuben  had  made  her  conscious  that 
she  was  robbing  them,  she  had  gone  nearer  to  an 
active  hatred  than  ever  before.  And,  indeed,  hatred 
in  such  a  case  is  the  most  natural  outcome ;  for  it  is 
little  else  than  the  soul's  perverse  attempt  to  justify 
to  itself  its  own  evil  desire. 

David,  however,  when  once  his  rage  over  Hannah's 
latest  offence  had  cooled,  behaved  to  his  aunt  much  as 
he  had  done  before  it.  He  was  made  placable  by  his 
secret  hopes,  and  touched  by  Reuben's  advances — 
though  of  these  last  he  took  no  practical  account 
whatever;  and  he  must  wait   for  his  letter.     So  he 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  153 

went  back  ungraciously  to  his  daily  tasks.  Mean- 
while he  and  Louie,  on  the  strength  of  the  gi-eat  coup 
in  prospect,  were  better  friends  than  they  had  ever 
been,  and  his  consideration  for  her  went  up  as  he 
noticed  that,  when  she  pleased,  the  reckless  creature 
could  keep  a  secret  'as  close  as  wax.' 

The  weeks,  however,  passed  away,  and  still  no  letter 
came  for  David.  The  shepherds'  meetings — first  at 
Clough  End  for  the  Cheshire  side  of  the  Scout,  and 
then  at  the  'Snake  Inn'  for  the  Sheffield  side — when 
the  strayed  sheep  of  the  year  were  restored  to  their 
owners,  came  and  went  in  due  course ;  sheep-washing 
and  sheep-shearing  were  over  ;  the  summer  was  half- 
way through ;  and  still  no  word  from  Mr.  Anerum. 

David,  full  of  annoyance  and  disappointment,  was 
seething  with  fresh  plans — he  and  Louie  spent  hours 
discussing  them  at  the  Smithy — when  suddenly  an 
experience  overtook  him,  which  for  the  monlent  effaced 
all  his  nascent  ambitions,  and  entirely  did  away  with 
Louie's  new  respect  for  him. 

It  was  on  this  wise. 

Mr.  Anerum  had  left  Clough  End  towards  the  end 
of  June.  The  congregation  to  which  he  ministered,  and 
to  which  Reuben  Grieve  belonged,  represented  one  of 
those  curious  and  independent  developments  of  the 
religious  spirit  which  are  to  be  found  scattered  through 
the  teeming  towns  and  districts  of  northern  England. 
They  had  no  connection  with  any  recognised  religious 
community,  but  the  members  of  it  had  belonged  to 
many — to  the  Church,  the  Baptists,  the  Independents, 
the  Methodists.  They  were  mostly  mill-hands  or  small 
tradesmen,  penetrated  on  the  one  side  with  the  fer- 
vour, the  j^earnings,  the  strong  formless  poetry  of 
English  evangelical  faith,  and  repelled  on  the  other  by 
various  features  in  the  different  sects  from  which  they 
came — by  the  hierarchical  strictness  of  the  Wesleyan 


154  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID  GEIEVE        book  i 

organisation,  or  tlie  looseness  of  the  Congregationalists, 
or  the  coldness  of  the  Chnrch.  They  had  come  to- 
gether to  seek  the  Lord  in  some  wa}-  more  intimate, 
more  moving,  more  effectual  than  any  they  had  yet 
found  ;  and  in  this  pathetic  search  for  the  '  rainbow 
gold'  of  faith  they  were  perpetually  brought  up  against 
the  old  stumbling-blocks  of  the  unregenerate  man, — 
the  smallest  egotisms,  and  the  meanest  vanities.  Mr. 
Ancrum,  for  instance,  had  come  to  the  Clough  End 
'Brethren'  full  of  an  indescribable  missionary  zeal. 
He  had  laboured  for  them  night  and  day,  taxing  his 
sickly  frame  far  beyond  its  powers.  But  the  most 
sordid  conspiracy  imaginable,  led  by  two  or  three  of 
the  prominent  members  who  thought  he  did  not  allow 
them  enough  share  in  the  evening  meetings,  had  finally 
overthrown  him,  and  he  had  gone  back  to  Manchester 
a  bitterer  and  a  sadder  man. 

After  he  left  there  was  an  interregnum,  during 
which  one  or  two  of  the  elder  '  Brethren '  taught  Sun- 
day school  and  led  the  Sunday  services.  But  at  last, 
in  August,  it  became  known  in  Clough  End  that  a  new 
minister  for  the  '  Christian  Brethren '  had  come  down, 
and  public  curiosity  in  the  Dissenting  circles  was  keen 
about  him.  After  a  few  weeks  there  began  to  be  a 
buzz  in  the  little  town  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Dyson. 
The  'Christian  Brethren'  meeting-room,  a  long  low 
upper  chamber  formerly  occupied  by  half  a  dozen 
hand-looms,  was  crowded  on  Sundays,  morning  and 
evening,  not  only  by  the  Brethren,  but  by  migrants 
from  other  denominations,  and  the  Sunday  school, 
which  was  held  in  a  little  rickety  garret  off  the  main 
room,  also  received  a  large  increase  of  members.  It 
was  rumoured  that  Mr.  Dyson  was  specially  success- 
ful with  boys,  and  that  there  was  an  'awakening' 
among  some  of  the  lowest  and  roughest  of  the  Clough 
End  lads. 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  155 

'He  ha  sich  a  way  wi  un,'  said  a  much-stirred 
mother  to  Eeuben  Grieve,  meeting  him  one  day  in  the 
street,  '  he  do  seem  to  melt  your  varra  marrow.' 

Reuben  went  to  liear  the  new  man,  was  much  moved, 
and  came  home  talking  about  him  with  a  stammering 
unction,  and  many  furtive  looks  at  David.  He  had 
tried  to  remonstrate  several  times  on  the  lad's  deser- 
tion of  chapel  and  Sunday  school,  but  to  no  purpose. 
There  was  something  in  David's  half  contemptuous, 
half  obstinate  silence  on  these  occasions  which  for  a 
man  like  Reuben  made  argument  impossible.  To  his 
morbid  inner  sense  the  boy  seemed  to  have  entered 
irrecoverably  on  the  broad  path  which  leadeth  to 
destruction.  Perhaps  in  another  year  he  would  be 
drinking  and  thieving.  With  a  curious  fatalism 
Reuben  felt  that  for  the  present,  and  till  he  had  made 
some  tangible  amends  to  Sandy  and  the  Unseen  Powers 
for  Hannah's  sin,  he  himself  could  do  nothing.  His 
hands  were  unclean.  But  some  tremulous  passing 
hopes  he  allowed  himself  to  build  on  this  new  prophet. 

Meanwhile,  David  heard  the  town-talk,  and  took 
small  account  of  it.  He  supposed  he  should  see  the 
new  comer  at  Jerry's  in  time.  Then  if  folk  spoke  true 
there  would  be  a  shindy  worth  joining  in.  Meanwhile, 
the  pressure  of  his  own  affairs  made  the  excitement 
of  the  neiglibourhood  seem  to  him  one  more  of  those 
storms  in  the  Dissenting  tea-cup,  of  which,  boy  as  he 
was,  he  had  known  a  good  many  already. 

One  September  evening  he  was  walking  down  to 
Clough  End,  bound  to  the  reading-room.  He  had 
qiiite  ceased  to  attend  the  '  Crooked  Cow.'  His  pen- 
nies were  precious  to  him  now,  and  he  saved  them 
jealously,  wondering  scornfully  sometimes  how  he 
could  ever  have  demeaned  himself  so  far  as  to  find 
excitement  in  the  liquor  or  the  company  of  the  '  Cow.' 
Halfway  down  to  the  town,  as  he  was  passing  the 


156  THE  HISTOKY  OF  DAVID  GEIEVE        book  i 

foundry,  whence  lie  had  drawn  the  pan  which  had  for 
so  long  made  the  Smithy  enchanted  ground  to  him, 
the  big  slouching  apprentice  who  had  been  his  quon- 
dam friend  and  ally  there,  came  out  of  the  foundry 
yard  just  in  front  of  him.  David  quickened  up  a 
little. 

'  Tom,  whar  are  yo  goin  ?  ' 

The  other  looked  round  at  him  uneasily. 

'Xiver  yo  mind.' 

The  youth's  uncouth  clothes  were  carefully  brushed, 
and  his  fat  face,  which  wore  an  incongruous  expres- 
sion of  anxiety  and  dejection,  shone  with  washing. 
David  studied  him  a  moment  in  silence,  then  he  said 
abruptly — 

'  Yo're  goin  prayer-meetin,  that's  what  yo  are.' 

'An  if  I  am,  it's  noa  consarn  o'  yourn.  Yo're  yan 
o'  th'  unregenerate ;  an  I'll  ask  yo,  Davy,  if  happen 
yo're  goin  town  Avay,  not  to  talk  ony  o'  your  car- 
nal talk  to  me.  I'se  got  hindrances  enough,  t'  Lord 
knows.' 

And  the  lad  went  his  way,  morosely  hanging  his 
head,  and  stepping  more  rapidly  as  though  to  get  rid 
of  his  companion. 

'Well,  I  niver!'  exclaimed  David,  in  his  astonish- 
ment, 'What's  wrong  wi  yo,  Tom?  Yo've  got  no 
more  spunk  nor  a  moultin  hen.  What's  getten  hold 
o'  yo  ? ' 

Tom  hesitated  a  moment.  '  TK  Lord ! '  he  burst 
out  at  last,  looking  at  Davy  with  that  sudden  uncon- 
scious dignity  which  strong  feeling  can  bestow  for  the 
moment  on  the  meanest  of  mortals.  '  He's  a  harryin' 
me !  I  havn't  slep  this  three  neets  for  shoutin  an 
cryin  !  It's  th'  conviction  o'  sin,  Davy.  Th'  devil 
seems  a  howdin  me,  an  I  conno  pull  away,  not  what- 
iver.  T'  new  minister  says,  "Dunnot  yo  pull.  Let 
Jesus  do  't  all.     He's  Strang,  He  is.     Yo're  nobbut  a 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  167 

Avorm."  But  I've  naw  assurance,  Davy,  theer's  whar 
it  is — I've  naw  assurance ! '  he  repeated,  forgetting  in 
liis  pain  the  unvegcnerate  mind  of  his  companion. 

David  walked  on  Ijeside  him  wondering.  When  he 
had  hxst  seen  Tom  he  was  lounging  in  a  half-drunken 
condition  outside  the  door  of  the  'Crooked  Cow,' 
cracking  tipsy  jokes  with  the  passers-by. 

'  Where  is  the  prayer-meetin  ? '  he  inquired  pres- 
ently. 

'In  owd  Simes's  shed — an  it's  late  too — I  mun 
hurry.' 

'  Why,  theer'U  be  plenty  o'  room  in  old  Simes's 
shed.     It's  a  fearfu  big  place.' 

'  An  lasst  time  theer  was  na  stannin  ground  for  a 
corn-boggart ;  an  I  wudna  miss  ony  o'  Mr.  Dyson's 
prayin,  not  for  nothin.     Good  neet  to  yo,  Davy.' 

And  Tom  broke  into  a  run  ;  David,  however,  kept 
up  with  him. 

'  P'raps  I'll  coom  too,'  he  said,  with  a  kind "  of 
bravado,  when  they  had  passed  the  bridge  and  the 
Kinder  printing  works,  and  Clough  End  was  in  sight. 

Tom  said  nothing  till  they  had  breasted  a  hill,  at 
the  top  of  which  he  paused  panting,  and  confronted 
David. 

'  Noo  yo'll  not  mak  a  rumpus,  Davy,'  he  said  mis- 
trustfully. 

•  An  if  I  do,  can't  a  hunderd  or  two  o'  yo  kick  me 
out  ?  '  asked  David,  mockingly.  '  I'll  mak  no  rumpus. 
P'raps  your  Mr.  Dyson  '11  convert  me.' 

And  he  walked  on  laughing. 

Tom  looked  darkly  at  him  ;  then,  as  he  recovered  his 
wind,  his  countenance  suddenly  cleared.  Satan  laid  a 
new  snare  for  him — poor  Tom  I — and  into  his  tortured 
heart  there  fell  a  poisonous  drop  of  spiritual  pride. 
Public  reprobation  applied  to  a  certain  order  of 
offences  makes  a  very  marketable  kind  of  fame,  as  the 


158  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

author  of  Manfred  knew  very  well.  David  in  his  small 
obscure  way  was  supplying  another  illustration  of  the 
principle.  For  the  past  year  he  had  been  something 
of  a  personage  in  Clough  End — having  always  his 
wits,  his  book-learning,  his  looks,  and  his  singular 
parentage  to  start  from.  Tom — the  shambling  butt 
of  his  comrades — began  to  like  the  notion  of  going 
into  prayer-meeting  with  David  Grieve  in  tow  ;  and 
even  that  bitter  and  very  real  cloud  of  spiritual 
misery  lifted  a  little. 

So  they  marched  in  together,  Tom  in  front,  with  his 
head  much  higher  than  before ;  and  till  the  minister 
began  there  were  many  curious  glances  thrown  at 
David.  It  was  a  prayer-meeting  for  boys  only,  and 
the  place  was  crammed  with  them,  of  all  ages  up  to 
eighteen. 

It  was  a  carpenter's  workshop.  Tools  and  timber 
had  been  as  far  as  possible  pushed  to  the  side,  and  at 
the  end  a  rough  platform  of  loose  planks  had  been 
laid  across  some  logs  so  as  to  raise  the  preacher  a 
little. 

8oon  there  was  a  stir,  and  Mr.  Dyson  appeared. 
He  was  tall  and  loosely  built,  Avith  the  stoop  from  the 
neck  and  the  sallow  skin  which  the  position  of  the 
cotton-spinner  at  work  and  the  close  fluffy  atmosphere 
in  which  he  lives  tend  to  develop.  Up  to  six  months 
ago,  he  had  been  a  mill-hand  and  a  Wesleyan  class- 
leader.  ISTow,  in  consequence  partly  of  some  inward 
crisis,  partly  of  revolt  against  an  'unspiritual'  super- 
intendent, he  had  thrown  up  mill  and  Methodism 
together,  and  come  to  live  on  the  doles  of  the  Chris- 
tian Brethren  at  Clough  End.  He  had  been  preaching 
on  the  moors  already  during  the  day,  and  was  tired 
out ;  but  the  pallor  of  the  harsh  face  only  made  the 
bright,  commanding  eye  more  noticeable.  It  ran  over 
the  room,  took    note  first    of  the   numbers,   then    of 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  159 

individuals,  marked  who  had  been  there  before,  who 
vas  a  new-comer.  The  audience  fell  into  order  and 
quiet  before  it  as  though  a  general  had  taken  com- 
mand. 

He  put  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  began  to  speak 
without  any  preface,  somewhat  to  the  boys'  surprise, 
who  had  expected  a  prayer.  The  voice,  as  generally 
happens  with  a  successful  revivalist  preacher,  w^as  of 
fine  quality,  and  rich  in  good  South  Lancashire  into- 
nations, and  his  manner  was  simplicity  itself. 

'  Suppose  we  put  off  our  prayer  a  little  bit,'  he 
said,  in  a  colloquial  tone,  his  fixed  look  studying  the 
crowded  benches  all  the  while,  'Perhaps  we'll  have 
more  to  pray  about  bj'-and-by.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  1 
haven't  been  long  in  Clough  End,  to  be  sure,  but  I 
think  I've  been  long  enough  to  get  some  notion  of  how 
you  boys  here  live — whether  you  work  on  the  land,  or 
whether  you  work  in  the  mills  or  in  shops — I've  been 
watching  you  a  bit,  perhaps  you  didn't  think  it ;  and 
what  I'm  going  to  do  to-night  is  to  take  your  lives  to 
pieces — take  them  to  pieces,  an  look  close  into  them, 
as  you've  seen  them  do  at  the  mill,  perhaps,  with  a 
machine  that  wants  cleaning.  I  want  to  find  out 
what's  wrong  wi  them,  what  they're  good  for,  whose 
work  they  do — GocVs  or  the  deviVs.  .  .  .  First  let  me 
take  the  mill-hands.  Perhaps  I  know  most  about 
their  life,  for  I  went  to  work  in  a  cotton-mill  when  I 
was  eight  years  old,  and  I  only  left  it  six  months  ago. 
I  have  seen  men  and  women  saved  in  that  mill,  so  that 
their  whole  life  afterwards  was  a  kind  of  ecstasy :  I 
have  seen  others  lost  there,  so  that  they  became  true 
children  of  the  devil,  and  made  those  about  them  as 
vile  and  wretched  as  themselves.  I  have  seen  men 
grow  rich  there,  and  I  have  seen  men  die  there ;  so  if 
there  is  anything  I  know  in  this  Avorld  it  is  how  fac- 
tory workers  spend  their  time — at  least,  I  think   I 


160  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

know.  But  judge  for  yourselv^es — shout  to  me  if  I'm 
wrong.     Isn't  it  somehow  like  this  ?  ' 

And  he  fell  into  a  description  of  the  mill-hand's 
working  day.  It  was  done  with  knowledge,  some- 
times with  humour,  and  through  it  all  ran  a  curious 
under-current  of  half-ironical  passion.  The  audience 
enjoyed  it,  took  the  points,  broke  in  now  and  then 
with  comments  as  the  speaker  touched  on  such  burn- 
ing matters  as  the  tyranny  of  overlookers,  the  temper 
of  masters,  the  rubs  between  the  different  classes  of 
'hands,'  the  behaviour  of  'minders'  to  the  'piecers' 
employed  by  them,  and  so  on.  The  sermon  at  one 
time  was  more  like  a  dialogue  between  preacher  and 
congregation.  David  found  himself  joining  in  it  in- 
voluntarily once  or  twice,  so  stimulating  was  the 
Avhole  atmosphere,  and  Mr.  Dyson's  eye  was  caught 
perforce  by  the  tall  dark  fellow  with  the  defiant  car- 
riage of  the  head  who  sat  next  to  Tom  Mullins,  and 
whom  he  did  not  remember  to  have  seen  before. 

But  suddenly  the  preacher  stopped,  and  the  room 
fell  dead  silent,  startled  by  the  darkening  of  his  look. 
'  Ay,'  he  said,  with  stern  sharpness.  '  Ay,  that's  how 
you  live — them's  the  things  you  spend  your  time  and 
your  minds  on.  You  laugh,  and  I  laugh — not  a  bad 
sort  of  life,  you  think — a  good  deal  of  pleasure,  after 
all,  to  be  got  out  of  it.  If  a  man  must  work  he  might 
do  worse.     0  you  poor  souls ! ' 

The  speaker  stopped,  as  though  mastering  himself. 
His  face  worked  with  emotion ;  his  last  words  had 
been  almost  a  cry  of  pain.  After  the  easy  give  and 
take  of  the  opening,  this  change  was  electrical.  David 
felt  his  hand  tremble  on  his  knee. 

'Answer  me  this!'  cried  the  preacher,  his  nervous 
cotton-spinner's  hand  outstretched.  '  Is  there  any  soul 
here  among  you  factory  lads  who,  when  he  wakes  in 
the  morning,  ever  thinks  of  saying  a  prayer?     Not  one 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  161 

of  you,  I'll  be  bound  !  What  with  shovelling  on  one's 
clothes,  and  gulping  down  one's  breakfast,  and  walking 
half  a  mile  to  the  mill,  who's  got  time  to  think  about 
prayers  ?  God  must  wait.  He's  always  there  above, 
you  think,  sitting  in  glory.  He  can  listen  any  time. 
Well,  as  you  stand  at  your  work — all  those  hours  1 — 
is  there  ever  a  moment  then  for  putting  up  a  word  in 
Jesus'  ear — Jesus,  Who  died  for  sinners  ?  Why,  no, 
how  should  there  be  indeed?  If  you  don't  keep  a 
sharp  eye  on  your  work  the  overlooker  'ull  know  the 
reason  why  in  double-quick  time !  .  .  .  But  there 
comes  a  break,  perhaps,  for  one  reason  or  another. 
Does  the  Lord  get  it  ?  What  a  thing  to  ask,  to  be 
sure !  Why,  there  are  other  spinners  close  by,  wait- 
ing for  rovings,  or  leaving  off  for  "baggin,"  and  a 
bit  of  talk  and  a  bad  word  or  two  are  a  deal  more 
fun,  and  come  easier  than  praying.  Half-past  five 
o'clock  at  last — knocking-off  time.  Then  you  begin  to 
think  of  amusing  yourselves.  There's  loafing  about  the 
streets,  which  never  comes  amiss,  and  there's  smoking 
and  the  public  for  you  bigger  ones,  and  there's  betting 
on  ]SIanchester  races,  and  there's  a  bout  of  swearing 
every  now  and  then  to  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  there 
are  other  thoughts,  and  perhaps  actions,  for  some  of 
you,  of  which  the  less  said  in  any  decent  Christian 
satherins  the  better !  And  so  bedtime  comes  round 
a"-ain :  still  not  a  moment  to  think  of  God  in — of  the 
Judgment  which  has  come  a  day  closer — of  your  sins 
which  have  grown  a  day  heavier — of  your  soul  which 
has  sunk  a  day  further  from  heaven,  a  day  nearer  to 
hell  ?  Not  one.  You  are  dead  tired,  and  mill-work 
begins  so  early.  Tumble  in — God  can  wait.  He  has 
waited  fourteen,  or  eighteen,  or  twenty  years  already  ! 
'But  you're  not  all  factory  hands  here.  I  see  a 
good  many  lads  I  know  come  from  the  country — from 
the  farms  up  Kinder  or  Edale  way.     Well,   I  don't 

VOL.  1  M 


102  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIE\'E        book  i 

know  so  much  about  your  ways  as  I  do  about  mills ; 
but  I  kuow  some,  and  I  can  guess  some.  You  are  not 
shut  up  all  day  with  the  roar  of  the  machines  in  your 
ears,  and  the  cotton-fluff  choking  your  lungs.  You 
have  to  live  harder,  perhaps.  You've  less  chances  of 
getting  on  in  the  world  ;  but  I  declare  to  you,  if  you're 
bad  and  godless — as  some  of  you  are — I  think  there's 
a  precious  sight  less  excuse  for  you  than  there  is  for 
the  mill-hands  ! ' 

And  with  a  startling  vehemence,  greater  by  far  than 
he  had  shown  in  the  case  of  the  mill-workers,  he  threw 
himself  on  the  vices  and  the  callousness  of  the  field- 
labourers.  For  wei-e  they  not,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by 
liour,  face  to  face  with  the  Almighty  in  His  marvellous 
world — with  the  rising  of  His  sun,  with  the  flash  of 
His  lightning,  with  His  clouds  which  dropped  fatness, 
and  with  the  heavens  which  declare  His  glory  ?  Xoth- 
ing  between  them  and  the  Most  High,  if  they  would 
open  their  dull  eyes  and  see  I  And  more  than  that. 
Not  a  bit  of  their  life,  but  had  been  dear  to  the  Lord 
Jesus — but  He  had  spoken  of  it,  taught  from  it,  made 
it  sacred.  The  shepherd  herding  the  sheep — how 
could  he,  of  all  men,  forget  and  blaspheme  the  Good 
Shepherd  ?  The  sower  scattering  the  seed — how  could 
he,  of  all  men,  forget  and  blaspheme  the  Heavenly 
Sower  ?  Oh,  the  crookedness  of  sin  !  Oh,  the  hard- 
ness of  men's  hearts  ! 

The  secret  of  the  denunciations  which  followed  lay 
hidden  deep  in  the  speaker's  personal  history.  They 
were  the  utterances  of  a  man  who  had  stood  for  years 
at  the  'mules,'  catching,  when  he  could,  through  the 
coarse  panes  of  factory  glass,  the  dim  blue  outlines  of 
distant  moors.  Here  were  noise,  crowd,  coarse  jesting, 
mean  tyrannies,  uncongenial  company — everything 
which  a  nervous,  excitable  nature,  tuned  to  poetry  in 
the  English  way  through  religion,  most  loathed;  there 


cuAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  163 

was  beauty,  peace,  leisure  for  thought,  for  holiness,  for 
emotion. 

]MeanAvhile  the  mind  of  David  Grieve  rose  once  or 
twice  in  angry  i)rotest.  It  was  not  fair — it  was  unjust 
— and  why  did  Mr.  Dyson  always  seem  to  be  looking 
at  him  ? — flinging  at  him  all  these  scathing  words 
about  farming  people's  sins  and  follies  ?  He  was 
shaken  and  excited.  Oratory,  of  any  sort,  never  failed 
to  stir  him  extraordinarily.  Once  even  he  would  have 
jumped  up  to  speak,  but  Tom  ^lulliu's  watcliful  hand 
closed  on  his  arm.  Davy  shook  it  off  angrily,  but 
was  perforce  reminded  of  his  promise.  And  Mr. 
Dyson  was  swift  in  all  things.  The  pitiless  sentences 
dropped ;  the  speaker,  exhausted,  wiped  his  brow  and 
pondered  a  moment ;  and  the  lads  from  the  farms 
about,  most  of  whom  David  knew  by  sight,  were  left 
staring  at  the  floor,  some  inclined  to  laugh  by  reaction, 
others  crimson  and  miserable. 

Well ;  so  God  was  everywhere  forgotten — in  the 
fields  and  in  the  mill.  The  greedy,  vicious  hours  went 
by,  and  God  still  waited — waited.  Would  He  wait 
for  ever  ? 

'Nay!' 

The  intense,  low-spoken  word  sent  a  shiver  through 
tlie  room.  The  revivalist  passion  had  been  mounting 
rapidly  amongst  the  listeners,  and  the  revivalist  sense 
divined  what  was  coming.  To  his  dying  day  David, 
at  least,  never  forgot  the  picture  of  a  sinner's  death 
agony,  a  sinner's  doom,  which  followed.  As  to  the 
first,  it  was  very  quiet  and  colloquial.  The  preacher 
dwelt  on  the  tortured  body,  the  choking  breath,  the 
failing  sight,  the  talk  of  relations  and  friends  round 
the  bed. 

' "  Ay,  poor  fellow,  he'll  not  lasst  mich  longer ;  t' 
doctor's  gien  him  uj) — and  a  good  thing  too,  for  his 
sufferins  are  terr'ble  to  see." 


1G4  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

'  And  your  poor  dying  ears  will  catch  what  they  say. 
Then  will  your  fear  come  upon  you  as  a  storm,  and 
your  calamity  as  a  whirlwind.     Such  a  fear  ! 

'  Once,  my  lads — long  ago — I  saw  a  poor  girl  caught 
by  her  hair  in  one  of  the  roving  machines  in  the  mill 
I  used  to  work  at.  Three  minutes  afterwards  they 
tore  away  her  body  from  the  iron  teeth  which  had 
destroyed  her.  But  I,  a  lad  of  twelve,  had  seen  her 
face  just  as  the  thing  caught  her,  and  if  I  live  to  be  a 
hundred  I  shall  never  forget  that  face — that  horrible, 
horrible  fear  convulsing  it. 

'But  that  fear,  my  boys,  was  as  nothing  to  the  sin- 
ner's fear  at  death !  Only  a  few  more  hours — a  few 
more  minutes,  perhaps — and  then  judgment !  All  the 
pleasant  loafing  and  lounging,  all  the  eating  and  drink- 
ing, the  betting  and  swearing,  the  warm  sun,  the  kind 
light,  the  indulgent  parents  and  friends  left  behind : 
nothing  for  ever  and  ever  but  the  torments  which 
belong  to  sin,  and  which  even  the  living  God  can  no 
more  spare  you  and  me  if  we  die  in  sin  than  the  mill- 
engine,  once  set  going,  can  spare  the  poor  creature 
that  meddles  with  it. 

'  Well ;  but  perhaps  in  that  awful  last  hour  you  try 
to  pray — to  call  on  the  Saviour.  But,  alas !  alas  ! 
prayer  and  faith  have  to  be  learnt,  like  cotton-spin- 
ning. Let  no  man  count  on  learning  that  lesson  for 
the  asking.  AVhile  your  body  has  been  enjoying  itself 
in  sin,  your  soul  has  been  dying — dying  ;  and  when  at 
the  last  you  bid  it  rise  and  go  to  the  Father,  you  Avill 
find  it  just  as  helpless  as  your  poor  paralysed  limbs. 
It  cannot  rise,  it  has  no  strength ;  it  cannot  go,  for 
it  knows  not  the  way.  ISTo  hope  ;  no  hope.  Down  it 
sinks,  and  the  black  waters  of  hell  close  upon  it  for 
ever ! ' 

Then  followed  a  sort  of  vision  of  the  lost — delivered 
in  short  abrupt  sentences — the  form  of  the  speaker 


CHAP.  IX  CHILDHOOD  165 

drawn  rigidly  up  meanwhile  to  its  full  height,  the 
long  aim  outstretched.  The  utterance  had  very  little 
of  the  lurid  materialism,  the  grotesque  horror  of  the 
ordinary  ranter's  hell.  But  it  stole  upon  the  imagina- 
tion little  by  little,  and  possessed  it  at  last  with  an  all- 
pervading  terror.  Into  it,  to  begin  with,  had  gone 
the  whole  life-ldood  and  passion  of  an  agonised  soul. 
The  man  speaking  had  himself  graven  the  terrors  of 
it  on  his  inmost  nature  through  many  a  week  of 
demoniacal  possession.  But  since  that  original  ex- 
perience of  fire  which  gave  it  birth,  there  had  come 
to  its  elaboration  a  strange  artistic  instinct.  Day 
after  day  the  preacher  had  repeated  it  to  hushed  con- 
gregations, and  with  every  repetition,  almost,  there 
had  come  a  greater  sharpening  of  the  light  and  shade, 
a  keener  sense  of  what  would  tell  and  move.  He  had 
given  it  on  the  moors  that  afternoon,  but  he  gave  it 
better  to-night,  for  on  the  wild  walk  across  the  plateau 
of  the  Peak  some  fresh  illustrations,  drawn  from  its 
black  and  fissured  solitude,  had  suggested  themselves, 
and  he  worked  them  out  as  he  went,  with  a  kind  of 
joy,  watching  their  effect.  Yet  the  man  was,  in  his 
way,  a  saint,  and  altogether  sincere — so  subtle  a  thing 
is  the  life  of  the  spirit. 

In  the  middle,  Tom  Mullins,  David's  apprentice- 
friend,  suddenly  broke  out  into  loud  groans,  rocking 
himself  to  and  fro  on  the  form.  A  little  later,  a  small 
fair-haired  boy  of  twelve  sprang  up  from  the  form 
where  he  had  been  sitting  trembling,  and  rushed  into 
the  space  between  the  benches  and  the  preacher,  quite 
unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing. 

'  Sir  ! '  he  said  ;  *  oh,  sir  ! — please — I  didn't  want  to 
say  them  bad  words  this  mornin ;  I  didn't,  sir ;  it  wor 
t'  big  uns  made  me;  they  said  they'd  duck  me — an  it 
do  hurt  that  bad.     Oh,  sir,  please  ! ' 


166  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

And  the  little  fellow  stood  wringing  his  hands,  the 
tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks. 

The  minister  stopped,  frowning,  and  looked  at  him. 
Then  a  smile  broke  on  the  set  face,  he  stepped  up  to 
the  lad,  threw  his  arm  round  him,  and  drew  him  up 
to  his  side  fronting  the  room. 

"^My  boy,'  he  said,  looking  down  at  him  tenderly, 
'you  and  I,  thank  God,  are  still  in  the  land  of  the 
living ;  there  is  still  time  to-night — this  very  minute — 
to  be  saved !  Ay,  saved,  for  ever  and  ever,  by  the 
blood  of  the  Lamb.  Look  away  from  yourselves — 
away  from  sin — away  from  hell — to  the  blessed  Lord, 
that  suffered  and  died  and  rose  again  ;  just  for  what  ? 
For  this  only — that  He  might,  with  His  own  pierced 
hands,  draw  every  soul  here  to-night,  and  every  soul 
in  the  wide  world  that  will  but  hear  His  voice,  out  of 
the  clutches  of  the  devil,  and  out  of  the  pains  of 
hell,  and  gather  it  close  and  safe  into  His  everlasting 
arms ! ' 

There  was  a  great  sob  from  the  whole  room.  Eough 
lads  from  the  upland  farms,  shop-boys,  mill-hands, 
strained  forward,  listening,  thirsting,  responding  to 
every  word. 

Bedemption — Salvation — the  deliverance  of  the  soul 
from  itself — thither  all  religion  comes  at  last,  whether 
for  the  ranter  or  the  philosopher.  To  the  enriching 
of  that  conception,  to  the  gradual  hewing  it  out  in 
historical  shape,  have  gone  the  noblest  poetry,  the 
purest  passion,  the  intensest  spiritual  vision  of  the 
highest  races,  since  the  human  mind  began  to  work. 
And  the  historical  shape  may  crumble ;  but  the  need 
will  last  and  the  travail  will  go  on ;  for  man's  quest  of 
redemption  is  but  the  eternal  yielding  of  the  clay  in 
the  hands  of  the  potter,  the  eternal  answer  of  the 
creature  to  the  urging  indwelling  Creator. 


CHILDHOOD  167 


CHAPTER    X 


Half  an  hour  later,  after  the  stormy  praying  and 
singing  whicli  liad  succeeded  Mr.  Dyson's  address, 
David  found  himself  tramping  up  the  rough  and  lonely 
road  leading  to  the  high  Kinder  valley.  The  lights 
of  Clough  End  had  disappeared ;  against  the  night 
sky  the  dark  woody  side  of  Mardale  jVloor  was  still 
visible ;  beneath  it  sang  the  river ;  a  few  stars  were 
to  be  seen  ;  and  every  noAV  and  then  the  windows  of 
a  farm  shone  out  to  guide  the  wayfarer.  But  David 
stumbled  on,  noticing  nothing.  At  the  foot  of  the 
steep  hill  leading  to  the  farm  he  stopped  a  moment, 
and  leant  over  the  gate.  The  little  lad's  cry  was  in 
his  ears. 

Presently  he  leapt  the  gate  impatientl}-,  and  ran  up 
whistling.  Supper  was  over,  but  Hannah  ungraciously 
brought  him  out  some  cold  bacon  and  bread.  Louie 
hung  about  him  while  he  ate,  studying  him  with  quick 
furtive  eyes. 

'Whar  yo  bin?'  she  said  abruptly,  when  Hannah 
had  gone  to  the  back  kitchen  for  a  moment.  Reuben 
was  dozing  by  the  fire  over  the  local  paper. 

*  Xowhere  as  concerns  you,'  said  David,  shortly.  He 
finished  his  supper  and  went  and  sat  on  the  steps. 
The  dogs  came  and  put  their  noses  on  his  knees.  He 
pulled  absently  at  their  coats,  looking  straight  before 
him  at  the  dark  point  of  Kinder  Low. 

*  Whar  yo  bin  ? '  said  Louie's  voice  again  in  his  ear. 
She  had  squatted  down  on  the  step  behind  him. 

'Be  off  wi  yer,'  said  David,  angrily,  getting  up  in 
order  to  escape  her. 

But  she  pursued  him  across  the  farmyard. 
'  Have  yo  got  a  letter  ?  ' 


108  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

'  No,  I  havn't.' 

'  Did  yo  ask  at  t'  post-oflfice  ? ' 

'  No,  I  didn't.' 

'  An  why  didn't  yo  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  didn't  want — soa  there — get  away.' 
And  he  stalked  off.  Lonie,  left  behind,  chewed  the 
end  of  reflection  in  the  darkness. 

Presently,  to  his  great  disgust,  as  he  was  sitting 
under  a  wall  of  one  of  the  pasture-fields,  hidden,  as 
he  conceived,  from  all  the  world  by  the  night,  he 
heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  the  click  of  a  stone,  and 
there  was  Louie  dangling  her  legs  above  him,  having 
attacked  him  in  the  rear. 

'  Uncle  Reuben's  talkin  'is  stuff  about  Mr.  Dyson. 
I  seed  'im  gooin  passt  Wigsons'  this  afternoon.  He's 
nowt — he's  common,  he  is.' 

The  thin  scornful  voice  out  of  the  dark  grated  on 
him  intolerably.  He  bent  forward  and  shut  his  ears 
tight  with  both  his  hands.  To  judge  from  the  muffled 
sounds  he  heard,  Louie  went  on  talking  for  a  while ; 
but  at  last  there  had  been  silence  for  so  long,  that  he 
took  his  hands  away,  thinking  she  must  have  gone. 

'  Yo've  been  at  t'  prayer-meetin,  I  tell  yo,  an  yo're 
a  great  stupid  niuffin-yed,  soa  theer.' 

And  a  peremptory  little  kick  on  his  shoulder  from 
a  substantial  shoe  gave  the  words  point. 

He  sprang  up  in  a  rage,  ran  down  the  hill,  jumped 
over  a  wall  or  two,  and  got  rid  of  her.  But  he  seemed 
to  hear  her  elfish  laugh  for  some  time  after.  As  for 
himself,  he  could  not  analyse  what  had  come  over 
him.  But  not  even  the  attraction  of  an  unopened 
parcel  of  books  he  had  carried  home  that  afternoon 
from  Clough  End — a  loan  from  a  young  stationer  he 
had  lately  made  acquaintance  with — could  draw  him 
back  to  the  farm.  He  sat  on  and  on  in  the  dark. 
And  when  at  last,  roused  by  the  distant  sounds  of 


CHAP.  X  CHILDHOOD  169 

shutting  up  the  house,  he  slunk  in  and  up  to  bed,  he 
tossed  about  for  a  long  time,  and  woke  up  often  in 
the  night.  The  tyrannous  power  of  another  man's 
faith  was  upon  him.  He  could  not  get  ^Vlr.  Dyson 
out  of  his  head.  How  on  earth  could  anybody  be  so 
certain?  It  was  monstrous  that  any  one  should  be. 
It  was  canting  stuff. 

Still,  next  day,  hearing  by  chance  that  the  new 
comer  was  going  to  preach  at  a  hamlet  the  other  side 
of  Clough  End,  he  went,  found  a  large  mixed  meet- 
ing mostly  of  mill-hands,  and  the  tide  of  Eevivalism 
rolling  high.  This  time  Mr.  Dyson  picked  him  out  at 
once — the  face  and  head  indeed  were  easily  remem- 
bered. After  the  sermon,  when  the  congregation 
were  filing  out,  leaving  behind  those  more  particularly 
distressed  in  mind  to  be  dealt  with  more  intimately 
in  a  small  prayer-meeting  by  Mr.  Dyson  and  a  prayer- 
leader,  the  minister  suddenly  stepped  aside  from  a 
group  of  people  he  was  talking  with,  and  touched 
David  on  the  arm  as  he  was  making  for  the  door. 

'  Won't  you  stay  ?  '  he  said  peremptoril3\  *  Don't 
trifle  with  the  Lord.' 

And  his  feverish  divining  eyes  seemed  to  look  the 
boy  through  and  through.  David  flushed,  and  pushed 
past  him  with  some  inarticulate  answer.  "When  he 
found  himself  in  the  open  air  he  was  half  angry, 
half  shaken  with  emotion.  And  afterwards  a  curious 
instinct,  the  sullen  instinct  of  the  wild  creature  shrink- 
ing from  a  possible  captor,  made  him  keep  himself  as 
much  as  possible  out  of  Mr.  Dyson's  way.  At  the 
prayer-meetings  and  addresses,  which  followed  each 
other  during  the  next  fortnight  in  quick  succession, 
David  was  almost  always  present;  but  he  stood  at  the 
back,  and  as  soon  as  the  general  function  wns  over 
he  fled.  The  preacher's  strong  will  was  piqued.  He 
began  to  covet  the  boy's  submission  disproportionately, 


170  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

and  laid  schemes  for  meeting  with  liim.  But  David 
evaded  them  all. 

Other  persons,  however,  succeeded  better.  When- 
ever the  revivalist  fever  attacks  a  community,  it  ex- 
cites in  a  certain  number  of  individuals,  especially 
Avomen,  an  indescribable  zeal  for  prosel^^tising.  The 
signs  of  '  conviction '  in  any  hitherto  unregenerate  soul 
are  marked  at  once,  and  the  '  saved '  make  a  prey  of  it, 
showing  a  marvellous  cunning  and  persistence  in  its 
pursuit. 

One  day  a  woman,  the  wife  of  a  Clough  End  shoe- 
maker, slightly  known  to  David,  met  him  on  the  moors. 

'  Will  yo  cooni  to-night  ?  '  she  said,  nodding  to  him. 
'  Theer'll  be  prayin'  at  our  house — about  half  a  dozen.' 

Then,  as  the  boy  stopped,  amazed  and  hesitating, 
she  fixed  him  with  her  shining  ecstatic  eyes. 

'  Awake,  thou  that  sleepest,'  she  said  under  her 
breath,  'and  Christ  shall  give  thee  light.' 

She  had  been  carrying  a  bundle  to  a  distant  farm. 
A  child  was  in  her  arms,  and  she  looked  dragged  and 
worn.  But  all  the  way  down  the  moor  as  she  came 
towards  him  David  had  heard  her  singing  hymns. 

He  hung  his  head  and  passed  on.  But  jn  the  even- 
ing he  went,  found  three  or  four  other  boys  his  own 
age  or  older,  the  woman,  and  her  husband.  The  woman 
sang  some  of  the  most  passionate  Methodist  hymns  ; 
the  husband,  a  young  shoemaker,  already  half  dead  of 
asthma  and  bronchitis,  told  his  '  experiences '  in  a 
voice  broken  by  incessant  coughing  ;  one  of  the  boys, 
a  rough  specimen,  known  to  David  as  a  van-boy  from 
some  calico-printing  works  in  the  neighbourhood, 
prayed  aloud,  breaking  down  into  sobs  in  the  middle  ; 
and  David,  at  first  obstinately  silent,  found  himself 
joining  before  the  end  in  the  groans  and  '  Amens,'  by 
force  of  a  contagious  excitement  he  half  despised  but 
could  not  withstand. 


rnAP.  X  CHILDHOOD  171 

The  little  prayer-meeting,  however,  broke  up  some- 
what in  confusion.  There  was  not  much  real  differ- 
ence of  opinion  at  this  time  in  Clough  End,  which  was, 
on  the  whole,  a  strongly  religious  town.  Even  the 
Churchmanship  of  it  was  decidedly  evangelical,  ready 
at  any  moment  to  make  common  cause  with  Dissent 
against  Ritualism,  if  such  a  calamity  should  ever 
threaten  the  little  community,  and  very  ready  to  join, 
more  or  less  furtively,  in  the  excitements  of  Dissent- 
ing revivals.  Jerry  Timmins  and  his  set  represented 
the  only  serious  blot  on  what  the  pious  Clough  Endian 
might  reasonably  regard  as  a  fair  picture.  But  this 
set  contained  some  sharp  fellows — provided  outlet  for 
a  considerable  amount  of  energy  of  a  raw  and  roving 
sort,  and,  no  doubt,  did  more  to  maintain  the  mental 
equilibrium  of  the  small  factory-town  than  any  enthu- 
siast on  the  other  side  would  for  a  moment  have 
allowed.  The  excitement  which  followed  in  the  train 
of  a  man  like  INEr.  Dyson  roused,  of  course,  an  answer- 
ing hubbub  among  the  Timmiusites.  The  whole  of 
Jerry's  circle  was  stirred  up,  in  fact,  like  a  hive  of 
wasps ;  their  ribaldry  grew  with  what  it  fed  on  ;  and 
every  day  some  new  and  exquisite  method  of  harrying 
the  devout  occurred  to  the  more  ingenious  among 
them. 

David  had  hitherto  escaped  notice.  But  on  this 
evening,  Avhile  he  and  his  half-dozen  companions  were 
still  on  their  knees,  they  were  first  disturbed  by  loud 
drummings  on  the  shoemaker's  door,  which  opened 
directly  into  the  little  room  Avhere  they  were  congre- 
gated ;  and  then,  when  they  emerged  into  the  street, 
they  found  a  mock  prayer-meeting  going  on  outside, 
with  all  the  usual  '  manifestations '  of  revivalist  fer- 
vour— sighs,  groans,  shouts,  and  the  rest  of  it — in  full 
flow.  At  the  sight  of  David  Grieve  there  were  first 
stares  and  then  shrieks  of  laughter. 


172  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GKIEVE        book  i 

'  I  say,  Davy,'  cried  a  drunken  young  weaver,  sid- 
ling up  to  him  on  his  knees  and  embracing  him  from 
behind,  '  my  heart's  real  touched.  Gie  me  your  coat, 
Davy ;  it's  better  nor  mine,  Davy ;  and  I'm  your 
Christian  brothei-,  Davy.' 

The  emotion  of  this  appeal  drew  uproarious  merri- 
ment from  the  knot  of  Secularists.  David,  in  a 
frenzy,  kicked  out,  so  that  his  assailant  dropped  him 
with  a  howl.  The  weaver's  friends  closed  upon  the 
'Ranters,'  Avho  had  to  fight  their  way  through.  It 
was  not  till  they  had  gained  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
that  the  shower  of  stones  ceased,  and  that  they  could 
pause  to  take  stock  of  their  losses.  Then  it  appeared 
that,  though  all  were  bruised,  torn,  and  furious,  some 
were  inclined  to  take  a  mystical  joy  in  persecution, 
and  to 'find  compensation  in  certain  plain  and  definite 
predictions  as  to  the  eternal  fate  in  store  for  'Jerry 
Timniins's  divils.'  David,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
much  more  inclined  to  vent  his  wrath  on  his  own  side 
than  on  the  Timminsites. 

'  Why  can't  yo  keep  what  yo're  doin  to  yoursels  ? ' 
he  called  out  fiercely  to  the  knot  of  panting  boys,  as 
he  faced  round  upon  them  at  the  gate  leading  to  the 
Kinder  road.  '  Yo're  a  parcel  o'  fools — always  chat- 
terin  an  clatterin.' 

The  others  defended  themselves  warmly.  'Them 
Timmins  lot'  were  always  spying  about.  They  daren't 
attack  the  large  meetings,  but  the^^  had  a  diabolical 
way  of  scenting  out  the  small  ones.  The  meetings  at 
the  shoemaker's  had  been  undisturbed  for  some  few 
nights,  then  a  Tiraminsite  passing  by  had  heard 
hymns,  probably  listened  at  the  keyhole,  and  of  course 
informed  the  main  body  of  the  enemy. 

'  They're  like  them  nassty  earwigs,'  said  one  boy  in 
disgust,  'they'll  wriggle  in  onywheres.' 

'Howd  yor  noise  1 '  said  David,  peremptorily.     'If 


f  MAP.  X  rillLDHOOD  173 

yo  wanted  to  keep  out  o'  their  way,  yo  could  do  't 
fasst  enough.' 

'  How  ? '  they  inquired,  with  equal  curtness. 

'Yo  needn't  meet  in  th'  town  at  aw.  Theer's 
plenty  o'  places  up  on  t'  moor,'  and  he  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  hills  behind  him,  lying  clear  in  the 
autumn  moonlight.  '  Theer's  th'  owd  Smithy — who'd 
hnd  yo  there  ?  ' 

The  mention  of  the  Smithy  was  received  as  an 
inspiration.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  pure  romantic 
temper  roused  by  these  revivalist  outbreaks  in  pro- 
vincial England.  The  idea  of  the  moors  and  the  old 
ruin  as  setting  for  a  secret  prayer-meeting  struck 
the  group  of  excited  lads  as  singularly  attractive. 
They  parted  cheerfully  upon  it,  in  spite  of  their 
bruises. 

David,  however,  walked  home  fuming.  The  self- 
abandonment  of  the  revival  had  been  all  along  well- 
nigh  intolerable  to  him — and  now,  that  he  should  have 
allowed  the  Timminsites  to  know  anything  about  his 
prayers  !  He  very  nearly  broke  off  from  it  altogether 
in  his  proud  disgust. 

However  he  did  ultimately  nothing  of  the  sort.  As 
soon  as  he  grew  cool  again,  he  was  as  much  tormented 
as  before  by  what  was  at  bottom  more  an  intellectual 
curiosity  than  a  moral  anguish.  There  was  some 
moral  awakening  in  it ;  he  had  sonae  real  qualms  about 
sin,  some  real  aspirations  after  holiness,  and,  so  far, 
the  self-consciousness  which  had  first  stirred  at  Ha- 
worth  was  deepened  and  fertilised.  But  the  thirst 
for  emotion  and  sensation  was  the  main  force  at  work. 
He  could  not  make  out  what  these  religious  people 
meant  by  their  '  experiences,'  and  for  the  first  time 
he  wanted  to  make  out.  So  when  it  was  proposed  to 
him  to  meet  at  the  Smithy  on  a  certain  Saturday 
evening,  he  agreed. 


174  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

Meanwhile,  Louie  was  sitting  up  in  bed  every  night, 
with  her  hands  round  her  sharp  knees,  and  her  black 
brows  knit  over  David's  follies.  It  seemed  to  her  he 
no  longer  cared  '  a  haporth '  about  getting  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Ancrum,  about  going  to  Manchester,  about  all 
those  entrancing  anti-meat  schemes  which  were  to  lead 
so  easily  to  a  paradise  of  free  '  buying '  for  both  of 
them.  Whenever  she  tried  to  call  him  back  to  these 
things  he  shook  her  oft'  impatiently,  and  their  new- 
born congeniality  to  each  other  had  been  all  swamped 
in  this  craze  for  '  shoutin  hollerin  '  people  she  desjMsed 
with  all  her  heart.  When  she  flew  out  at  him,  he  just 
avoided  her.  Indeed,  he  avoided  her  now  at  all  times, 
whether  she  flew  out  or  not.  There  was  an  invincible 
heathenism  about  Louie,  which  made  her  the  natural 
enemy  of  any  '  awakened '  person. 

The  relation  of  the  elders. in  the  farm  to  the  new 
development  in  David  was  a  curious  one.  Hannah 
viewed  it  with  a  secret  satisfaction.  Christians  have 
less  time  than  other  people — such,  at  least,  had  been 
her  experience  with  Reuben — to  spend  in  thirsting  for 
the  goods  of  this  world.  The  more  David  went  to 
prayer-meetings,  the  less  likely  was  he  to  make  inad- 
missible demands  on  what  belonged  to  him.  As  for 
poor  Reuben,  he  seemed  to  have  got  his  wish ;  while 
he  and  Hannah  had  been  doing  their  best  to  drive 
Sandy's  son  to  perdition  through  a  downward  course 
of  'loafing,'  God  had  sent  Mr.  Dyson  to  put  Davy 
back  on  the  right  road.  But  he  was  ill  at  ease ;  he 
watched  the  excitement,  which  all  the  lad's  prickly 
reticence  could  not  hide  from  those  about  him,  with 
strange  and  variable  feelings.  As  a  Christian,  he 
should  have  rejoiced;  instead,  the  uncle  and  nephew 
shunned  each  other  more  than  ever,  and  shunned 
especially  all  talk  of  the  revival.  Perhaps  the  whole 
situation — the  influence  of  the  new  man,  of  the  local 


cnAP.  X  CHILDIloOi)  176 

talk,  of  the  quickened  spiritual  life  around  him,  did 
but  aggravate  the  inner  strain  in  Keuben.  Perhaps 
liis  wife's  satisfaction,  -which  his  sharpened  conscience 
perceived  and  understood,  troubled  him  intolerably. 
At  any  rate,  his  silence  and  disquiet  grew,  and  his  only 
pleasure  lay,  more  than  ever,  in  those  solitary  cogita- 
tions we  have  already  s})oken  of. 

The  loth  of  October  api)roached — as  it  happened, 
the  Friday  before  the  Smithy  prayer-meeting.  On 
that  day  of  the  year,  according  to  ancient  and  inva- 
riable custom,  the  Yorkshire  stock — steers,  heifers, 
young  horses — which  are  transferred  to  the  Derby- 
shire farms  on  the  15th  of  May,  are  driven  back  to 
their  Yorkshire  owners,  with  all  the  fatness  of  Derby- 
shire pastures  showing  on  their  sleek  sides.  Breeders 
and  farmers  meet  again  at  Woodhead,  just  within  the 
Yorkshire  border.  The  animals  are  handed  over  to 
their  owners,  paid  for  at  so  much  a  head,  and  any 
preventible  damage  or  loss  occurring  among  them  is 
reckoned  against  the  farmer  returning  them,  according 
to  certain  local  rules. 

As  the  middle  of  the  month  came  nearer,  Keuben 
began  to  talk  despondently  to  Hannah  of  his  probable 
gains  from  his  Yorkshire  '  boarders.'  It  had  been  a 
cold  wet  summer;  he  was  'feart'  the  owners  would 
think  he  might  have  taken  more  care  of  some  of  the 
animals,  especially  of  the  young  horses,  and  he  men- 
tioned certain  ailments  springing  from  damp  and 
exposure  for  which  he  might  be  held  responsible. 
Hannah  grew  irritated  and  anxious.  The  receipts  from 
this  source  were  the  largest  they  could  reckon  upon 
in  the  year.  But  the  fields  on  which  the  Yorkshire 
animals  pastured  were  at  some  distance  from  the 
house ;  this  department  of  the  farm  business  was 
always  left  wholly  to  Keuben ;  and.  with  much  grum- 
bling and  scolding,   she  took  his   word  for  it  as  to 


176  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

the  probable  lowness  of  the  sum  he  shoukl  bring 
back. 

David,  meanwhile,  was  sometimes  a  good  deal  puz- 
zled by  Reuben's  behaviour.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  uncle  told  some  queer  tales  at  home  about  their 
summer  stock.  And  when  Reuben  announced  his  in- 
tention of  going  by  himself  to  Woodhead,  and  leaving 
David  at  home,  the  boy  was  still  more  astonished. 

However,  he  was  glad  enough  to  be  spared  the 
tramp  with  a  set  of  people  whose  ways  and  talk  were 
more  and  more  uncongenial  to  him ;  and  after  his 
uncle's  departure  he  lay  for  hours  hidden  from  Louie 
among  the  heather,  sometimes  arguing  out  imaginary 
arguments  with  Mr.  Dyson,  sometimes  going  through 
passing  thrills  of  emotion  and  fear.  What  was  meant, 
he  Avanted  to  know,  by  ^the  sense  of  pardon^?  Person 
after  person  at  the  prayer-meetings  he  had  been  fre- 
quenting had  spoken  of  attaining  it  with  ecstasy,  or 
of  being  still  shut  out  from  it  with  anguish.  But 
how,  after  all,  did  it  differ  from  pardoning  yourself  ? 
You  had  only,  it  seemed  to  him,  to  think  very  hard 
that  you  were  pardoned,  and  the  feeling  came.  How 
could  anybody  tell  it  was  more  than  that  ?  David 
racked  his  brain  endlessly  over  the  same  subject. 
Who  could  be  sure  that  'experience '  was  not  all  moon- 
shine ?  But  he  was  as  yet  much  too  touched  and 
shaken  by  what  he  had  been  going  through  to  draw 
any  trenchant  conclusions.  He  asked  the  question, 
however,  and  therein  lay  the  great  difference  between 
him  and  the  true  stuff  of  Methodism. 

Meanwhile,  in  his  excitement,  he,  for  the  first  time, 
ceased  to  go  to  the  Dawsons'  as  usual.  To  begin  with, 
they  dropped  out  of  a  mind  which  was  preoccupied 
with  one  of  the  first  strong  emotions  of  adolescence. 
Then,  some  one  told  him  casually  that  'Lias  was  more 
ailing  than  usual,  and  that   Margaret  was  in  much 


CHAP.  X  CHILDHOOD  177 

trouble.  He  was  pricked  with  remorse,  but  just  be- 
cause Margaret  would  be  sure  to  question  him,  a  raw 
shyness  came  in  and  held  him  back  from  the  effort  of 
going. 

On  the  Saturday  evening  David,  having  ingeniously 
given  Louie  the  slip,  sped  across  the  fields  to  the 
Smithy.  It  was  past  five  o'clock,  and  the  light  was 
fading.  But  the  waning  gold  of  the  sunset  as  he 
jumped  the  wall  on  to  the  moor  made  the  whole 
autumnal  earth  about  him,  and  the  whole  side  of  the 
Scout,  one  splendour.  Such  browns  and  pinks  among 
the  withering  ling ;  such  gleaming  greens  among  the 
bilberry  leaf ;  such  reds  among  the  turning  ferns ; 
such  fiery  touches  on  the  mountain  ashes  overhanging 
the  Red  Brook !  The  western  light  struck  in  great 
shafts  into  the  bosom  of  the  Scout ;  and  over  its  grand 
encompassing  mass  hung  some  hovering  clouds  just 
kindling  into  rosy  flame.  As  the  boy  walked  along  he 
saw  and  thrilled  to  the  beauty  which  lay  spread  about 
him.  His  mood  w^as  simple,  and  sweeter  than  usual. 
He  felt  a  passionate  need  of  expression,  of  emotion. 
There  was  a  true  disquiet,  a  genuine  disgust  with  self 
at  the  bottom  of  him,  and  God  seemed  more  than 
imaginatively  near.  Perhaps,  on  this  day  of  his  youth, 
of  all  days,  he  was  closest  to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

At  the  Smithy  he  found  about  a  dozen  persons, 
mostly  youths,  just  come  out  from  the  two  or  three 
mills  which  give  employment  to  Clough  End,  and  one 
rather  older  than  the  rest,  a  favourite  prayer-leader  in 
Sunday  meetings.  At  first,  everything  felt  strange ; 
the  boys  eyed  one  another;  even  David  as  he  stepped 
in  among  them  had  a  juomentary  reaction,  and  was 
more  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  red-haired  fellow 
there  with  whom  he  had  fought  a  mighty  fight  on  the 
Huddersfield  expedition,  than  of  any  spiritual  needs. 

VOL.   I  N 


178  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

However,  the  prayer-leader  knew  his  work.  He  was 
slow  and  pompous ;  his  tone  with  the  Almighty  might 
easily  have  roused  a  hostile  sense  of  humour ;  but 
Dissent  in  its  atitive  and  emotional  forms  kills  the 
sense  of  humour;  and,  besides,  there  was  a  real,  un- 
gainly power  in  the  man.  Every  phrase  of  his  open- 
ing prayer  was  hackneyed;  every  gesture  uncouth. 
But  his  heart  was  in  it,  and  religious  conviction  is  the 
most  infectious  thing  in  the  world.  He  warmed,  and 
his  congregation  warmed  with  him.  The  wild  scene, 
too,  did  its  part — the  world  of  darkening  moors  spread 
out  before  them ;  the  mountain  wall  behind  them ;  the 
October  wind  sighing  round  the  rviined  walls ;  the 
lonely  unaccustomed  sounds  of  birds  and  water.  When 
he  ceased,  boy  after  boy  broke  out  into  more  or  less 
incoherent  praying.  Soon  in  the  dusk  they  could  no 
longer  see  each  other's  faces ;  and  then  it  was  still 
easier  to  break  through  reserve. 

At  last  David  found  himself  speaking.  What  he 
said  was  at  first  almost  inaudible,  for  he  was  kneeling 
between  the  wall  and  the  pan  which  had  been  his 
childish  joy,  with  his  face  and  arms  crushed  against 
the  stones.  But  when  he  began  the  boys  about  pricked 
up  their  ears,  and  David  was  conscious  suddenly  of 
a  deepened  silence.  There  were  warm  tears  on  his 
hidden  cheeks  ;  but  it  pleased  him  keenly  they  should 
listen  so,  and  he  prayed  more  audibly  and  freely. 
Then,  when  his  voice  dropped  at  last,  the  prayer-leader 
gave  out  the  familiar  hymn,  'Come,  0  thou  Traveller 
unknown : ' — 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see! 

My  company  before  is  gone. 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  Thee  ; 

With  Thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 


CHAP.  X  rnTLDirooD  179 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 

Thy  new  unutterable  name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  tell— 

To  know  it  now  resolved  1  am. 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go, 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 


'Tis  Lovel  'tis  Love — thou  lovest  me! 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart ; 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee, 

Pure  universal  Love  thou  art ; 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  mercies  move, 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Again  and  again  the  lines  rose  on  the  autumn  air  ; 
each  time  the  hymn  came  to  an  end  it  was  started 
afresh,  the  sound  of  it  spreading  far  and  wide  into  the 
purple  breast  of  Kinder  Scout.  At  last  the  painful 
sobbing  of  poor  Tom  ]\Iullins  almost  drowned  the  sing- 
ing. The  prayer-leader,  himself  much  moved,  bent 
over  and  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

'Look  to  Jesus,  Tom.  Lay  hold  on  the  Saviour. 
Don't  think  of  your  sins;  they're  done  away  i'  th' 
blood  o'  the  Lamb.  Howd  Him  fast.  Say,  "I  be- 
lieve," and  the  Lord  ull  deliver  yo,' 

With  a  cry,  the  great  hulking  lad  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  clasped  his  arms  above  his  head — 

•  I  do  believe — I  will  believe.  Help  me.  Lord  Jesus. 
Oh,  I'm  saved  !  I'm  saved  ! '  And  he  remained  stand- 
ing in  an  ecstasj',  looking  to  the  sky  above  the  Scout, 
where  the  red  sunset  glow  still  lingered. 

'  Hallelujah !  hallelujah  !  Thanks  be  to  God ! '  cried 
the  prayer-leader,  and  the  Smithy  resounded  in  the 
growing  darkness  with  similar  shouts.  David  was 
almost  choking  with  excitement.  He  would  have 
given  worlds  to  spring  to  Tom  Mullins's  side  and  pro- 
claim the  same  faith.     But  the  inmost  heart  of  him, 


180  THE   HISTORY  OF  DxVYID  GEIEYE        book  i 

his  real  self,  seemed  to  him  at  this  testing  moment 
something  dead  and  cold.  No  heavenly  voice  spoke 
to  him,  David  Grieve.  A  genuine  pang  of  religions 
despair  seized  him.  He  looked  out  over  the  moor 
through  a  gap  in  the  stones.  There  was  a  dim  path 
below ;  the  fancy  struck  him  that  Christ,  the  '  Trav- 
eller unknown/  was  passing  along  it.  He  had  alread}* 
stretched  out  His  hand  of  blessing  to  Tom  Mullins. 

'  To  me  !  to  me,  too ! '  David  cried  under  his 
breath,  carried  away  by  the  haunting  imagination,  and 
straining  his  eyes  into  the  dusk.  Had  the  night 
opened  to  his  sight  there  and  then  in  a  vision  of  glory, 
he  would  have  been  no  whit  surprised. 

Hark  ! — what  was  that  sound  ? 

A  weird  scream  rose  on  the  wind.  The  startled 
congregation  in  the  Smithy  scrambled  to  their  feet. 
Another  scream,  nearer  apparently  than  the  first,  and 
then  a  loud  wailing,  broken  every  few  seconds  by  a 
strange  slight  laugh,  of  which  the  distance  seemed 
quite  indefinite.  Was  it  close  by,  or  beyond  the  Red 
Brook  ? 

The  prayer-leader  turned  white,  the  boys  stood 
huddled  round  him  in  every  attitude  of  terror.  Again 
the  scream,  and  the  little  ghostly  laugh  !  Looking  at 
each  other  wildly,  the  whole  congregation  broke  from 
the  Smithy  down  the  hill.  But  the  leader  stopped 
himself. 

'It's  mebbe  soom  one  in  trouble,'  he  said  manfully, 
every  limb  trembling.  '  We  mun  go  and  see,  my  lads.' 
And  he  rushed  off  in  the  direction  whence  the  first 
sound  had  seemed  to  come — towards  the  Red  Brook — 
half  a  dozen  of  the  bolder  spirits  following.  The  rest 
stood  cowering  on  the  slope  under  the  Smithy.  David 
meanwhile  had  climbed  the  ruined  wall,  and  stood 
with  head  strained  forward,  his  eyes  sweeping  the 
moor.     But  every  outline  was  sinking  fast  into  the 


CHAP.  XI  rilTI.DIIOOD  IRl 

gulf  of  the  night ;  only  a  few  indistinct  masses — a 
cluster  of  gorse-bushes,  a  clump  of  mountain  ash — 
still  showed  here  and  there. 

The  leader  made  for  one  of  these  darker  patches 
on  the  mountain-side,  led  on  always  by  the  recurrent 
screams.  He  reached  it ;  it  was  a  patch  of  juniper 
overhanging  the  Red  Brook — when  suddenly  from 
behind  it  there  shot  up  a  white  thing,  taller  than  the 
tallest  man,  with  nodding  head  and  outspread  arms, 
and  such  laughter — so  faint,  so  shrill,  so  evil,  breaking 
midway  into  a  hoarse  angry  yell. 

'  J^iny  Crum!  Jenny  Crum!'  cried  the  whole  band 
with  one  voice,  and,  wheeling  round,  they  ran  down 
the  Scout,  joined  by  the  contingent  from  the  Smithy, 
some  of  them  falling  headlong  among  the  heather  in 
their  agony  of  flight,  others  ruthlessly  knocking  over 
those  in  front  of  them  who  seemed  to  be  in  their  way. 
In  a  few  seconds,  as  it  seemed,  the  whole  Scout  was 
left  to  itself  and  the  night.  Footsteps,  voices,  all 
were  gone — save  for  one  long  peal  of  most  human,  but 
still  elfish,  mirth,  which  came  from  the  Eed  Brook. 


CHAPTER   XI 

A  DARK  figure  sprang  down  from  the  wall  of  the 
Smithy,  leapt  along  the  heather,  and  plunged  into  the 
bushes  along  the  brook.  A  cry  in  another  key  was 
heard. 

David  emerged,  dragging  something  behind  him. 

'Yo  limb,  yo!  How  dare  yo,  yo  little  beast?  Yo 
impident  little  toad ! '  And  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of 
rage  he  shook  what  he  held.  But  Louie — for  natu- 
rally  it  was  Louie — wrenched  herself  away,  and  stood 
confronting  him,  panting,  but  exultant. 


182  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   aTJIEVE        book  i 

'I  freetened  'em  I  just  didn't  I  ?  Cantin  hvirabugs  I 
'^  Jenny  Crnm!  Jenny  Cnim!'"  And,  mimicking  the 
voice  of  the  leader,  she  broke  again  into  an  hysterical 
shout  of  laughter. 

David,  beside  himself,  hit  out  and  struck  her.  It 
was  a  heavy  blow  which  knocked  her  down,  and  for  a 
moment  seemed  to  stun  her.  Then  she  recovered  her 
senses,  and  flew  at  him  in  a  mad  passion,  weeping 
wildly  with  the  smart  and  excitement. 

He  held  her  off,  ashamed  of  himself,  till  she  flung 
away,  shrieking  out — 

'  Go  and  say  its  prayers,  do — good  little  boy— poor 
little  babby.  Ugh,  yo  coward !  hittin  gells,  that's  all 
yo're  good  for.' 

And  she  ran  off  so  fast  that  all  sight  of  her  was 
lost  in  a  few  seconds.  Only  two  or  three  loud  sobs 
seemed  to  come  back  from  the  dark  hollow  below.  As 
for  the  boy  he  stopped  a  second  to  disentangle  his 
feet  from  the  mop  and  the  tattered  sheet  wherewith 
Louie  had  worked  her  transformation  scene.  Then  he 
dashed  up  the  hill  again,  past  the  Smithy,  and  into  a 
track  leading  oiit  on  the  high  road  between  Castleton 
and  Clough  End.  He  did  not  care  where  he  went. 
Five  minutes  ago  he  had  been  almost  in  heaven;  now 
he  was  in  hell.  He  hated  Louie,  he  hated  the  boys 
who  had  cut  and  run,  he  loathed  himself.  Ko  ! — re- 
ligion was  not  for  such  as  he.  No  more  canting — no 
more  praying — away  with  it  I  He  seemed  to  shake  all 
the  emotion  of  the  last  few  week's  from  him  with  scorn 
and  haste,  as  he  ran  on,  his  strong  young  limbs  bat- 
tling with  the  wind. 

Presently  he  emerged  on  the  high  road.  To  the 
left,  a  hundred  yards  away,  were  the  lights  of  a  way- 
side inn  ;  a  farm  waggon  and  a  pair  of  horses  standing 
with  drooped  and  patient  heads  Avere  drawn  up  on  the 
cobbles    in    front   of  it.     David    felt  in  his   pockets. 


CHAP.  XI  rillLDTTOOD  183 

There  was  eighteenpence  in  them,  the  remains  of 
lialf-a-crown  a  strange  gentleman  had  given  him  in 
Clough  End  the  week  before  for  stopping  a  runaway 
horse.     In  he  stalked. 

'  Two  penn'orth  of  gin — hot ! '  he  commanded. 

The  girl  serving  the  bar  brought  it  and  stared  at 
him  curiously.  The  glaring  paraffin  lamp  above  his 
head  tlirew  the  frowning  brows  and  wild  eyes,  the 
crimson  cheeks,  heaving  chest,  and  tumbled  hair,  into 
strong  light  and  shade.  '  That's  a  quare  un  I '  she 
thought,  but  she  found  him  handsome  all  the  same, 
and,  retreating  behind  the  beer-taps,  she  eyed  him 
surreptitiously.  She  was  a  raw  country  lass,  not  yet 
stript  of  all  her  natural  shyness,  or  she  would  have 
begun  to  'chaff'  liini. 

'Another!'  said  David,  pushing  forward  his  glass. 
This  time  he  looked  at  her.  His  reckless  gaze  trav- 
elled over  her  coarse  and  comely  face,  her  full  figure, 
her  bare  arms.  He  drank  the  glass  she  gave  him,  and 
yet  another.  She  began  to  feel  half  afraid  of  him,  and 
moved  away.  The  hot  stimulant  ran  through  his  veins. 
Suddenly  he  felt  his  head  wliirling  from  the  effects  of 
it,  but  that  horril)le  clutch  of  despair  was  no  longer 
on  him.  He  raised  himself  defiantly  and  turned  to 
go,  staggering  along  the  floor.  He  was  near  the  en- 
trance when  an  inner  door  opened,  and  the  carter,  who 
had  been  gossiping  in  a  room  behind  with  the  land- 
lord, emerged.  He  started  with  astonishment  when 
he  saw  David. 

'  Hullo,  Davy,  what  are  yo  after  ? ' 

David  turned,  nearly  losing  his  balance  as  he  did 
so,  and  clutching  at  the  bar  for  support.  He  found 
himself  confronted  with  Jim  Wigson — his  old  enemy — 
who  had  been  to  Castleton  with  a  load  of  hay  and  some 
calves,  and  was  on  his  way  back  to  Kinder  again. 
When  he  saw  who  it  was  clinging  to  the  bar  counter, 


184  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

Jim  first  stared  and  then  burst  into  a  hoarse  roar  of 
laughter. 

'  Coom  here  I  coom  here  1 '  he  shouted  to  the  party 
in  the  back  parlour.  '  Here's  a  rum  start !  I  do 
declare  this  beats  cock-fighting  I — this  do.  Damn  my 
eyes  iv  it  doosn't !  Look  at  that  yoong  limb.  Why 
they  towd  me  down  at  Clough  End  this  mornin  he'd 
been  took  "serious" — took  wi  a  prayin  turn — they 
did.  Look  at  un  I  It  ull  tak  'im  till  to-morrow 
mornin  to  know  his  yed  from  his  heels.  He  !  he  !  he  ! 
Yo're  a  deep  un,  Davy — yo  are.  But  yo'll  get  a  bastin 
when  Hannah  sees  you — prayin  or  no  prayin.' 

And  Jim  went  off  into  another  guffaw,  pointing  his 
whip  the  while  at  Davy.  Some  persons  from  the  par- 
lour crowded  in,  enjoying  the  fun.  David  did  not  see 
them.  He  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  glass  he  had 
just  emptied,  and  steadying  himself  by  a  mighty 
effort,  flung  it  swift  and  straight  in  Jim  Wigson's 
face.  There  was  a  crash  of  fragments,  a  line  of  blood 
appeared  on  the  young  cartel's  chin,  and  a  chorus  of 
Avrath  and  alarm  rose  from  the  group  behind  him. 
With  a  furious  oath  Jim  placed  a  hand  on  the  bar, 
vaulted  it,  and  fell  upon  the  lad.  David  defended 
himself  blindly,  but  he  was  dazed  with  drink,  and  his 
blows  and  kicks  rained  aimlessly  on  Wigson's  iron 
frame.  In  a  second  or  two  Jim  had  tripped  him  up, 
and  stood  over  him,  his  face  ablaze  with  vengeance 
and  conquest. 

'  Yo  yoong  varmint — yo  cantiu  yoong  hypocrite ! 
I'll  teach  yo  to  show  impereuce  to  your  betters.  Yo 
bin  alius  badly  i'  want  o'  soombody  to  tak  yo  down  a 
peg  or  two.  ISTow  I'll  show  yo.  I'll  not  fight  yo,  but 
I'll  flog  yo — Jiog  yo — d'  yo  hear  ?  ' 

And  raising  his  carter's  whip  he  brought  it  down  on 
the  boy's  back  and  legs.  David  tried  desperately  to 
rise — in  vain — Jim  had  him  by  the  collar ;  and  four  or 


CHAP.  XI  riiiLDTiorn)  185 

five  times  more  the  heavy  whip  came  down,  avonj^ing 
with  each  lash  many  a  shimbering  grudge  in  the  vic- 
tor's soul. 

Then  Jim  f»-lt  his  arm  firmly  caught.  *Xow, 
Mister  Wigson,'  cried  the  landlord — a  little  man,  but 
a  wiry — 'yo'll  not  get  me  into  trooble.  Let  th'  yoong 
ri[)stitch  go.  Yo've  gien  him  a  taste  he'll  not  forget 
in  a  week  o'  .Sundays.     Let  him  go.' 

Jim,  with  more  oaths,  struggled  to  get  free,  but 
the  landlord  had  quelled  many  rows  in  his  time,  and 
his  wrists  were  worthy  of  his  calling.  Meanwhile  his 
wife  helped  up  the  boy.  David  was  no  sooner  on 
his  feet  than  he  made  another  mad  rush  for  Wigson, 
and  it  needed  the  combined  efforts  of  landlord,  land- 
lady, and  servant-girl  to  part  the  two  again.  Then 
the  landlord,  seizing  David  from  behind  by  '  the  scuft 
of  the  neck,'  ran  him  out  to  the  door  in  a  twinkling. 

'Go  'long  wi  yo !  An  if  yo  coom  raisin  th'  divil 
here  again,  see  iv  I  don't  gie  yo  a  souse  on  th'  yed 
mysel.'  And  he  shoved  his  charge  out  adroitly  and 
locked  the  door. 

David  staggered  across  the  road  as  though  still 
under  the  impetus  given  by  the  landlord's  shove. 

The  servant-girl  took  advantage  of  the  loud  cross- 
fire of  talk  which  immediately  rose  at  the  bar  round 
Jim  Wigson  to  run  to  a  corner  window  and  lift  the 
blind.  The  boy  was  sitting  on  a  heap  of  stones  for 
mending  the  road,  looking  at  the  inn.  Other  passers- 
by  had  come  in,  attracted  by  the  row,  and  the  girl 
slipped  out  unperceived,  opened  the  side  door,  and  ran 
across  the  road.  It  had  begun  to  rain,  and  the  drojjs 
splashed  in  her  face. 

David  was  sitting  leaning  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  lighted  windows  of  the  house  opposite.  The  rays 
which  came  from  them  showed  her  that  his  nose  and 
forehead  were  bleeding,  and  that  the  blood  was  drip- 


im  TIIK   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GEIEVE        book  i 

ping  unheeded  on  the  boy's  clothes.  He  was  utterly 
powerless,  and  trembling  all  over,  but  his  look  '  gave 
her  a  turn.' 

'Now,  luke  here,'  she  said,  bending  down  to  him. 
'  Yo  jes  go  whoam.  Wigson,  he'll  be  out  direckly,  an 
he'll  do  yo  a  hurt  iv  he  iinds  yo.  Coom,  I'll  put  yo 
i'  the  way  for  Kinder.' 

And  before  he  could  gather  his  will  to  resist,  she 
had  dragged  him  up  with  her  strong  countrywoman's 
arms  and  was  leading  him  along  the  road  to  the 
entrance  of  the  lane  he  had  come  by. 

'Lor,  yo  are  bleedin,'  she  said  compassionately; 
'  he  shud  ha  thowt  as  how  yo  wor  nobbut  a  lad — an  it 
wor  he  begun  aggiu  fust.  He's  a  big  bully  is  Wigson.' 
And  impulsively  raising  her  apron  she  applied  it  to 
the  blood,  David  quite  passive  all  the  while.  The 
great  clumsy  lass  nearly  kissed  him  for  pity. 

'  Now  then,'  she  said  at  last,  turning  him  into  the 
lane,  '  yo  know  your  way,  an  I  mun  goo,  or  they'll  be 
raisin  the  parish  arter  me.  Gude  neet  to  yo,  an  keep 
out  o'  Wigson's  sect.  Best  yursel  a  bit  theer— agen 
th'  wall.' 

And  leaving  him  leaning  against  the  wall,  she 
reluctantly  departed,  stopping  to  look  back  at  him 
two  or  three  times  in  spite  of  the  rain,  till  the  angle 
of  the  wall  hid  him  from  view. 

The  rain  poured  down  and  the  wind  whistled 
through  the  rough  lane.  David  presently  slipped 
down  upon  a  rock  jutting  from  the  wall,  and  a  fev- 
ered, intermittent  sleep  seized  him— the  result  of  the 
spirits  he  had  been  drinking.  His  will  could  oppose 
no  resistance ;  he  slept  on  hour  after  hour,  sheltered 
a  little  by  an  angle  of  tlie  wall,  but  still  soaked  by 
rain  and  buffeted  by  the  wind. 

When  he  awoke  he  staggered  suddenly  to  his  feet. 
The  smart  of  his  back  and  legs  recalled  him,  after  a 


CHAP,   xi  CIIILDHOOD  187 

few  luoinents  of  bewilderment,  to  a  mental  torture  he 
had  scarcely  yet  had  time  to  feel.  He — David  Grieve 
— had  been  beaten — thrashed  like  a  dog — by  Jim 
Wigson ! ,  The  remembered  fact  brought  Avith  it  a 
degradation  of  mind  and  body — a  complete  unstring- 
ing of  the  moral  libres,  which  made  even  revenge 
seem  an  impossible  output  of  energy.  A  nature  of 
this  sort,  with  such  capacities  and  ambitions,  carries 
about  with  it  a  sense  of  supremacy,  a  natural,  indis- 
pensable self-conceit  which  acts  as  the  sheath  to  the 
bud,  and  is  the  condition  of  healthy  development. 
Break  it  down  and  you  bruise  and  jeopardise  the 
flower  of  life. 

Jim  Wigson  I — the  coarse,  ignorant  lout  with  whom 
he  had  been,  more  or  less,  at  feud  since  his  first  day  in 
Kinder,  whom  he  had  despised  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  young  vanity.  By  to-morrow  all  Kinder  would 
know,  and  all  Kinder  would  laugh.  '  What !  yo  whopped 
Beuben  Grieve's  nevvy,  Jim  ?  Wal,  an  a  good  thing, 
tool  A  lick  now  an  again  ud  do  him  noa  harm — 
a  cantankerous  yoong  rascot — pert  and  proud,  like  t' 
passon's  pig,  I  say.'  David  could  hear  the  talk  to  be 
as  though  it  were  actually  beside  him.  It  burnt  into 
his  ear. 

He  groped  his  way  through  the  lane  and  on  to  the 
nioor — trembling  with  physical  exhaustion,  the  morbid 
frenzy  within  him  choking  his  breath,  the  storm  beat- 
ins:  in  his  face.  What  was  that  black  mass  to  his 
right  ? — the  Smithy  ?  A  hard  sob  rose  in  his  throat. 
Oh,  he  had  been  so  near  to  an  ideal  world  of  sweet- 
ness, purity,  holiness  !     Was  it  a  year  ago  ? 

AVith  great  difficulty  he  found  the  crossing-place 
in  the  brook,  and  then  the  gap  in  the  wall  which  led 
him  into  the  farm  fields.  When  he  was  still  a  couple 
of  fields  off  the  house  he  heard -the  dogs  beginning. 
But  he  heard  them  as  though  in  a  dream. 


188  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   (iRIEVE        book  i 

At  last  he  stood  at  the  door  and  fumbled  for  the 
handle.  Locked  !  Why,  what  time  could  it  be  ?  He 
tried  to  remember  what  time  he  had  left  home,  but 
failed.  At  last  he  knocked,  and  just  as  he  did  so  he 
perceived  through  a  chink  of  the  kitchen  shutter  a 
light  on  the  scrubbed  deal  table  inside,  and  Hannah's 
figure  beside  it.  At  the  sound  of  the  knocker  Hannah 
rose,  put  away  her  work  with  deliberation,  snuffed  the 
candle,  and  then  moved  with  it  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen.  The  boy  watched  her  with  a  quickly  beating 
heart  and  whirling  brain.     She  opened  the  door. 

'  Whar  yo  bin  ? '  she  demanded  sternly.  '  I'd  like 
to  know  what  business  yo  have  to  coom  in  this  time 
o'  neet,  an  your  uncle  fro  whoam.  Yo've  bin  in 
mischief,  I'll  be  bound.  Theer's  Louie  coom  back  wi 
a  black  eye,  an  jes  because  she  woan't  say  nowt  about 
it,  I  know  as  it's  yo  are  at  t'  bottom  o'  't.  I'm  reg'lar 
sick  o'  sich  doins  in  a  decent  house.  Whar  yo  bin, 
I  say  ? ' 

And  this  time  she  held  the  candle  np  so  as  to  see 
him.  She  had  been  sitting  fuming  by  herself,  and  was 
in  one  of  her  blackest  tempers.  David's  misdemeanour 
was  like  food  to  a  hungry  instinct. 

'  I  went  to  prayer-meetin,'  the  lad  said  thickly.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  though  the  words  came  all  in  the 
wrong  order. 

Hannah  bent  forward  and  gave  a  sudden  cry. 

'  Why,  yo  bin  fightin  !  Yo're  all  ower  blood !  Yo 
bin  fightin,  and  I'll  bet  a  thousand  pund  yo  draw'd 
in  Louie  too.  And  sperrits  !  Why,  yo  smell  o'  sperrits  ! 
Yo're  jes  reekin  wi  'em  !  Wal,  upon  my  word ! ' — 
and  Hannah  drew  herself  back,  flinging  every  slow 
word  in  his  face  like  a  blow.  'Yo  feature  your 
mither,  yo  do,  boath  on  yovi,  pretty  close.  I  alius 
said  it  ud  coom  out  i'  yo  too.  Prayer-meetin !  Yo 
yoong  hypocrite  !     Gang  your  ways  !     Yo  may  sleej) 


(IIAI-.  xi  CHILDHOOD  189 

i'  th'    stable ;    it's   good   enough   liggin   for   yo   tins 
neet.' 

And  before  he  had  taken  in  her  words  she  had 
slammed  the  door  in  his  face,  and  locked  it.  He 
made  a  feeble  rush  for  it  in  vain.  Hannah  marched 
back  into  tlie  kitclieii,  listening  instinctively  first  to 
liim  left  outside,  and  then  for  any  sound  there  might 
be  from  u[istairs.  In  a  minute  or  two  she  heard 
uneven  ste[)S  going  away  ;  l)ut  there  was  no  movement 
in  the  room  overhead.  Louie  was  sleeping  heavily. 
As  for  Hannah,  she  sat  down  again  with  a  fierce 
decision  of  gesture,  which  seemed  to  vibrate  through 
the  kitchen  and  all  it  held.  "Who  could  find  fault 
with  her?  It  would  be  a  lesson  to  him.  It  was  not 
a  cold  night,  and  there  was  straw  in  the  stable — a 
deal  better  lying  than  such  a  boy  deserved.  As  she 
thought  of  his  'religious'  turn  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  a  bitter  scorn. 

The  night  wore  on  in  the  high  Kinder  valley.  The 
stormy  wind  and  rain  beat  in  great  waves  of  sound 
and  flood  against  the  breast  of  the  mountain  ;  the 
Kinder  stream  and  the  Red  Brook  danced  under  the 
heavy  drops.  The  grouse  lay  close  and  silent  in 
the  sheltering  heather ;  even  the  owls  in  the  lower 
woods  made  no  sound.  Still,  the  night  was  not  per- 
fectly dark,  for  towards  midnight  a  watery  moon  rose, 
and  showed  itself  at  intervals  between  the  pelting 
showers. 

In  the  Dawsons'  little  cottage  on  Frimley  ]\Ioor 
there  were  still  lights  showing  when  that  pale  moon 
appeared.  ^Margaret  was  watching  late.  She  and 
another  woman  sat  by  the  fire  talking  under  their 
breaths.  A  kettle  was  beside  her  with  a  long  spout, 
\\  hieh  sent  the  steam  far  into  the  room,  keeping  the 
air  of  it  moist  and  warm   for  the  poor  bronchitic  old 


190  THE  HISTOEY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

man  who  lay  elose-curtained  from  the  draughts  on  the 
wooden  bed  in  the  corner. 

The  kettle  sang,  the  fire  crackled,  and  the  wind 
shook  the  windows  and  doors.  But  suddenly,  through 
the  other  sounds,  Margaret  was  aware  of  an  intermit- 
tent knocking — a  low,  hesitating  sound,  as  of  some  one 
outside  afraid,  and  yet  eager,  to  make  himself  heard. 

She  started  up,  and  her  companion — a  homely 
neighbour,  one  of  those  persons  whose  goodness  had, 
perhaps,  helped  to  shape  poor  Margaret's  philosophy 
of  life — ^looked  round  with  a  scared  expression, 

'  Whoiver  can  it  be,  this  time  o'  neet  ? '  said  Mar- 
garet— and  she  looked  at  the  old  clock — 'why,  it's 
close  on  middle-neet ! ' 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  went  to  the  door, 
and  bent  her  mouth  to  the- chink — 

'  Who  are  yo  ?  What  d'  yo  want  ? '  she  asked,  in 
a  distinct  but  low  voice,  so  as  not  to  disturb  'Lias. 

No  answer  for  a  minute.  Then  her  ear  caught 
some  words  from  outside.  With  an  exclamation  she 
unlocked  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

'  Davy  !  Davy  ! '  she  cried,  almost  forgetting  her 
patient. 

The  boy  clung  to  the  lintel  without  a  word. 

'  Cooni  your  ways  in  ! '  she  said  peremptorily,  catch- 
ing him  by  the  sleeve.  '  We  conno  ha  no  draughts  on 
th'  owd  man.' 

And  she  drew  him  into  the  light,  and  shut  the  door. 
Then  as  the  shaded  candle  and  firelight  fell  on  the  tall 
lad,  wavering  now  to  this  side,  now  to  that,  as  though 
unable  to  support  himself,  his  clothes  dripping  on  the 
flags,  his  face  deadly  white,  save  for  the  smears  of 
blood  upon  it,  the  two  women  fell  back  in  terror. 

'  Will  yo  gie  me  shelter  ? '  said  the  boy,  hoarsely  ; 
'  I  bin  lying  hours  i'  th'  wet.  Aunt  Hannah  turned 
me  out.' 


CHAP.  XI  CHILDHOOD  191 

Margaret  came  close  to  him  and  looked  liiin  all 
over. 

'  What  for  did  she  turn  yo  out,  Davy  ?  ' 

'  I  wor  late.  I'd  been  tightin  Jim  Wigson,  an  she 
smelt  me  o'  drink.' 

And  suddenly  the  lad  sank  down  on  a  stool  near, 
and  laid  his  head  in  his  hands,  as  though  he  could 
hold  it  lip  no  longer. 

Margaret's  blanched  old  face  meltetl  all  in  a  minute. 

'  Howd  'un  up  quick ! '  she  said  to  her  companion, 
still  in  a  whisper.  '  He  hanno  got  a  dry  thread  on — 
an  luke  at  that  cut  on  his  yed — wh}^,  he'll  be  laid  up 
for  weeks,  maybe,  for  this.  Get  his  cloos  off,  an  we'll 
put  him  on  my  bed  then.' 

And  between  them  they  dragged  him  up,  and  Mar- 
garet began  to  strip  off  his  jacket.  As  they  held  him 
— David  surrendering  himself  passively — the  curtain 
of  the  bed  was  drawn  back,  and  'Lias,  raising  himself 
on  an  elbow,  looked  out  into  the  room.  As  he  caught 
sight  of  the  group  of  the  boy  and  the  two  women, 
arrested  in  their  task  by  the  movement  of  the  curtain, 
the  old  man's  face  expressed,  first  a  weak  and  agitated 
bewilderment,  and  then  in  an  instant  it  cleared. 

His  dream  wove  the  sight  into  itself,  and  'Lias 
knew  all  about  it.  His  thin  long  features,  with  the 
white  hair  hanging  about  them,  took  an  indulgent 
amused  look. 

'Bony — eh,  Bony,  is  that  yo,  man  ?  Eh,  but  yo're 
cold  an  pinched,  loike  !  A  gude  glass  o'  English  grog 
ud  not  come  amiss  to  yo.  An  your  coat,  an  your 
boots — what  is 't  drippin ?  Snaw?  Yo  make  a  man's 
backbane  freeze  t'  see  yo.  An  there's  hot  wark  be- 
hind }'o,  too.  Moscow  might  ha  warmed  yo,  I'm 
thinkin,  an ' 

l)ut  the  weak  husky  voice  gave  way,  and  'Lias  fell 
back,  still  holding  the  curtain,  though,  in  his  emaci- 


192  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE        book  i 

ated  hand,  and  straining  his  dim  eyes  on  David. 
Margaret,  with  tears,  ran  to  liim,  tried  to  quiet  him 
and  to  shut  out  the  light  from  him  again.  But  he 
pushed  her  irritably  aside. 

'  No,  Margaret, — doan't  intrude.  What  d'  yo  know 
about  it  ?  Yo  know  nowt,  Margaret.  When  did  yo 
iver  heer  o'  the  Moscow  campaign?  Let  me  be, 
woan't  yo  ? ' 

But  perceiving  that  he  would  not  be  quieted,  she 
turned  him  on  his  pillows,  so  that  he  could  see  the  boy 
at  his  ease. 

'  He's  bin  out  i'  th'  wet,  'Lias  dear,  has  Davy,'  she 
said;  'and  it's  nobbut  a  clashy  night.  We  mun  gie 
him  sumraat  hot,  and  a  jolace  to  sleep  in.' 

But  the  old  man  did  not  listen  to  her.  He  lay  look- 
ing at  David,  his  pale  blue  eyes  weirdly  visible  in  his 
haggard  face,  muttering  to  himself.  He  was  still 
tramping  in  the  snow  with  the  French  army. 

Then,  suddenly,  for  the  first  time,  he  seemed 
troubled.  He  stared  up  at  the  pale  miserable  boy  who 
stood  looking  at  him  with  trembling  lips.  His  OAvn 
face  began  to  work  painfully,  his  dream  struggled 
with  recognition. 

Margaret  drew  David  quickly  away.  She  hurried 
him  into  the  further  corner  of  the  cottage,  where  he 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  bed.  There  she  quickly 
stripped  him  of  his  wet  garments,  as  any  mother 
might  have  done,  found  an  old  flannel  shirt  of  'Lias's 
for  him,  and,  wrapping  him  close  in  a  blanket,  she 
made  him  lie  down  on  her  own  bed,  he  being  now  much 
too  weak  to  realise  what  was  done  with  him.  Then 
she  got  an  empty  bottle,  filled  it  from  the  kettle,  and 
13ut  it  to  his  feet ;  and  finally  she  brought  a  bowlful 
of  warm  water  and  a  bit  of  towel,  and,  sitting  down 
by  him,  she  washed  the  blood  and  dirt  away  from  his 
face  and  hand,  and  smoothed  down  the  tangled  black 


CHAP.  XI  ClIlLDirOOD  193 

hair.  She,  too,  noticed  the  smell  of  sijirits,  and  shook 
her  head  over  it;  but  her  raotherliness  grew  with 
every  act  of  service,  and  when  she  had  made  him 
warm  and  comfortable,  and  he  Avas  dropping  into  the 
dead  sleep  of  exhaustion,  she  drew  her  old  hand  ten- 
derly across  his  brow. 

'  He  do  feature  yan  o'  my  own  lads  so  as  he  lies 
theer,'  she  said  tremulously  to  her  friend  at  the  fire, 
as  though  explaining  herself.  '  When  they'd  coom 
home  late  fro  wark,  I'd  use  to  hull  'em  up  so  mony  a 
time.  A}',  I'd  been  woonderin  what  had  coom  to  th' 
boy.  I  thowt  he'd  been  goin  wrang  soomhow,  or  he'd 
ha  coom  aw  these  weeks  to  see  'Lias  an  me.  It's  a 
poor  sort  o'  family  he's  got.  That  Hannah  Grieve's  a 
hard  un,  I'll  uphowd  yo.  Theer's  a  deal  o'  her  fault 
in  't,  yo  may  mak  sure.' 

Then  she  went  to  give  'Lias  some  brandy — he  lived 
on  little  else  now.  He  dropped  asleep  again,  and, 
coming  back  to  the  hearth,  she  consented  to  lie  down 
before  it  while  her  friend  watched.  Her  failing  frame 
was  worn  out  with  nursing  and  want  of  rest,  and  she 
was  soon  asleep. 

When  Davy  awoke  the  room  was  full  of  a  chill  day- 
light. As  he  moved  he  felt  himself  stiff  all  over.  The 
sensation  brought  back  memory,  and  the  boy's  whole 
being  seemed  to  shrink  together.  He  burrowed  first 
under  his  coveriugs  out  of  the  light,  then  suddenly  he 
sat  up  in  bed,  in  the  shadow  of  the  little  staircase — or 
rather  ladder — which  led  to  the  upper  story,  and 
looked  about  him. 

The  good  woman  who  had  shared  IMargaret's  watch 
Avas  gone  back  to  her  own  home  and  children.  ]\Iar- 
garet  had  made  up  the  fire,  tidied  the  room,  and,  at 
'Lias's  request,  drawn  up  the  blinds.  She  had  just 
given  him  some  beef-tea  and  brandy,  sponged  his  face, 
and  lifted  him  on  his  pillows.     There  seemed  to  be  a 

VOL.  I  o 


194  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        hook  i 

revival  of  life  in  the  old  man,  death  was  for  the 
moment  driven  back ;  and  Margaret  hung  over  him  in 
an  ecstasy,  the  two  crooning  together.  David  could 
see  her  thin  bent  figure — the  sharpened  delicacy  of 
the  emaciated  face  set  in  the  rusty  black  net  cap 
which  was  tied  under  the  chin,  and  fell  in  soft  frills 
on  the  still  brown  and  silky  hair.  He  saw  her 
weaver's  hand  folded  round  'Lias's,  and  he  could  hear 
'Lias  speaking  in  a  weak  thread  of  a  voice,  but  still 
sanely  and  rationally.  It  gave  him  a  start  to  catch 
some  of  the  words — he  had  been  so  long  accustomed 
to  the  visionary  'Lias. 

'  Have  yo  rested,  Margaret  ? ' 

'  Ay,  dear  love,  three  hours  an'  moor.  Betsy  James 
wor  here ;  she  saw  yo  wanted  for  nowt.  She's  a  gude 
creetur,  ain't  she,  'Lias  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  but  noan  so  good  as  my  Margaret,'  said  the 
old  man,  looking  at  her  wistfully.  '  But  yo'll  wear 
yorsel  down,  Margaret;  yo've  had  no  rest  for  neets. 
Yo're  alius  toilin'  and  moilin',  an'  I'm  no  worth  it, 
Margaret.' 

The  tears  gushed  to  the  wife's  eyes.  It  was  only 
with  the  nearness  of  death  that  'Lias  seemed  to  have 
found  out  his  debt  to  her.  To  both,  her  lifelong  ser- 
vice had  been  the  natural  offering  of  the  lower  to  the 
higher ;  she  had  not  been  used  to  gratitude,  and  she 
could  not  bear  it. 

'  Dear  heart !  dear  love  ! '  David  heard  her  say ;  and 
then  there  came  to  his  half-reluctant  ear  caresses  such 
as  a  mother  gives  her  child.  He  laid  his  head  on  his 
knees,  trying  to  shut  them  out.  He  wished  with  a 
passionate  and  bitter  regret  that  he  had  not  been  so 
many  weeks  without  coming  near  these  two  people ; 
and  now  'Lias  was  going  fast,  and  after  to-day  he 
would  see  them  both  no  more — for  ever  ? 

Margaret  heard  liim  moving,  and  nodded  back  to 
him  over  lier  shoulder. 


CHAP.  XI  CHILDHOOD  196 

*Yo've  slept  well,  Davy, — better  nor  I  thowt  yo 
would.     Your  cloos  are  by  yo — atwixt  yo  an  t'  stairs.' 

And  there  lie  found  them,  dry  and  brushed.  He 
dressed  hastily  and  came  forward  to  the  fire.  'Lias 
recognised  him  feebly,  Margaret  watching  anxiously 
to  see  whether  his  fancies  would  take  him  again.  In 
this  tension  of  death  and  jjarting  his  visions  had 
become  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  IJut  'Lias 
lay  quiet. 

'  Davy  wor  caught  i'  th'  rain,  and  I  gave  him  a  bed,' 
she  explained  again,  and  the  old  man  nodded  without 
a  word. 

Tlien  as  she  prepared  him  a  bowl  of  oatmeal  she 
stood  by  the  lire  giving  the  boy  motherly  advice.  He 
must  go  back  home,  of  course,  and  never  mind  Han- 
nah ;  there  would  come  a  time  when  he  would  get  his 
chance  like  other  people ;  and  he  mustn't  drink,  for, 
'  i'  th'  first  place,  drink  wor  a  sad  waste  o'  good  wits,' 
and  David's  were  '  better  'n  most ; '  and  in  the  second, 
'  it  wor  a  sin  agen  the  Lord.' 

David  sat  with  his  head  drooped  in  his  hand  appar- 
ently listening.  In  reality,  her  gentle  babble  passed 
over  him  almost  unheeded.  He  was  aching  in  mind 
and  body  ;  his  strong  youth,  indeed,  had  but  just  saved 
him  from  complete  ph3'sical  collapse ;  for  he  had  lain 
an  indefinite  time  on  the  soaking  moor,  till  misery  and 
despair  had  driven  him  to  Margaret's  door.  But  his 
moral  equilibrium  was  beginning  to  return,  in  virtue 
of  a  certain  resolution,  the  one  thing  which  now  stood 
between  him  and  the  black  gulf  of  the  night.  He  ate 
his  porridge  and  then  he  got  up. 

'  I  mun  goo,  ^largaret.' 

He  would  fain  have  thanked  her,  but  the  words 
choked  in  his  throat. 

'  Ay,  soa  yo  mun,  Davy,'  said  the  little  body  briskly. 
'  If  theer's  an  on  pleasant  thing  to  do  it's  best  doon 


lOG  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

quickly — yo  mun  go  back  and  do  your  duty.  Coom 
and  see  us  when  yo're  passin  again.  An  say  good-bye 
to  'Lias.    He's  that  wick  this  mornin — ain't  yo,  'Lias  ? ' 

And  with  a  tender  cheerfulness  she  ran  across  to 
'Lias  and  told  him  Davy  was  going. 

'Good-bye,  Davy,  my  lad,  good-bye,'  murmured  the 
old  man,  as  he  felt  the  boy's  strong  fingers  touching 
his.  '  Have  yo  been  readin  owt,  Davy,  since  we  saw 
yo?     It's  a  long  time,  Davy.' 

'No,  nowt  of  ony  account,'  said  David,  looking 
away. 

'  Ay,  but  yo  mun  keep  it  up.  Coom  when  yo  like ; 
I've  not  mony  books,  but  yo  know  yo  can  have  'em  aw. 
I  want  noau  o'  them  now,  do  I,  Marg'ret  ?  But  I 
want  for  nowt — nowt.  Dyin  's  long,  but  it's  varra — 
varra  peaceful.     Margaret ! ' 

And  withdrawing  his  hand  from  Davy,  'Lias  laid  it 
in  his  wife's  with  a  long,  long  sigh.  David  left  them 
so.     He  stole  out  unperceived  by  either  of  them. 

When  he  got  outside  he  stood  for  a  moment  under 
the  sheltering  sycamores  and  laid  his  cheek  against 
the  door.     The  action  contained  all  he  could  not  say. 

Then  he  sped  along  towards  the  farm.  The  sun 
was  rising  through  the  autumn  mists,  striking  on  the 
gold  of  the  chestnuts,  the  red  of  the  cherry  trees. 
There  were  spaces  of  intense  blue  among  the  rolling 
clouds,  and  between  the  storm  past  and  the  storm  to 
come  the  whole  moorland  world  was  lavishly,  garishly 
bright. 

He  paused  at  the  top  of  the  pasture-fields  to  look  at 
the  farm.  Smoke  was  already  rising  from  the  chimney. 
Then  Aunt  Hannah  was  up,  and  he  must  mind  him- 
self. He  crept  on  under  walls,  till  he  got  to  the 
back  of  the  farmyard.  Then  he  slipped  in,  ran  into 
the  stable,  and  got  an  old  coat  of  his  left  there  the  day 
before.     There  was  a  copy  of  a  Methodist  paper  lying 


CHAP.  XI  CHILDHOOD  197 

near  it.  He  took  it  up  and  tore  it  across  with  passion. 
But  his  rage  was  not  so  much  with  the  paper.  It  was 
his  own  worthless,  unstable,  miserable  self  he  would 
have  rent  if  he  could.  The  wreck  of  ideal  hopes,  the 
defacement  of  that  fair  image  of  itself  which  every 
healthy  youth  bears  about  with  it,  could  not  have  been 
more  pitifully  expressed. 

Then  he  looked  round  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
else  that  he  could  honestly  take.  Yes — an  ash  stick 
he  had  cut  himself  a  week  or  two  ago.  Nothing  else — 
and  there  was  Tibby  moving  and  beginning  to  bark  in 
the  cowhouse. 

He  ran  across  the  road,  and  from  a  safe  shelter  in 
the  fields  on  the  farther  side  he  again  looked  back  to 
the  farm.  There  was  Louie's  room,  the  blind  still 
down.  He  thought  of  his  blow  of  the  night  before — 
of  his  promises  to  her.  Aye,  she  would  fret  over  his 
going — he  knew  that — in  her  own  wild  way.  She 
would  think  he  had  been  a  beast  to  her.  So  he  had — 
so  he  had  !  There  surged  up  in  his  mind  inarticulate 
phrases  of  remorse,  of  self-excuse,  as  though  he  were 
talking  to  her. 

Some  day  he  would  come  back  and  claim  her.  But 
when !  His  buoyant  self-dependence  was  all  gone.  It 
had  nothing  to  do  with  his  present  departure.  That 
came  simply  from  the  fact  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  go  on  living  in  Kinder  any  longer — he  did  not 
stop  to  analyse  the  whys  and  wherefores. 

But  suddenly  a  nervous  horror  of  seeing  anyone  he 
knew,  now  that  the  morning  was  advancing,  startled  him 
from  his  hiding-place.  He  ran  up  towards  the  Scout 
again,  so  as  to  make  a  long  circuit  round  the  Wigsons' 
farm.  As  he  distinguished  the  walls  of  it  a  shiver  of 
passion  ran  through  the  young  body.  Then  he  struck 
off  straight  across  the  moors  towards  Glossop. 

One  moment  he  stood  on  the  top  of  Mardale  Moor. 


198  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE        book  i 

On  one  side  of  liim  was  tlie  Kinder  valley,  Needhani 
Farm  still  showing  among  its  trees ;  the  white  cataract 
of  the  Downfall  cleaving  the  dark  wall  of  the  Scout, 
and  calling  to  the  runaway  in  that  voice  of  storm  he 
knew  so  well ;  the  Mermaid's  Pool  gleaming  like  an 
eye  in  the  moorland.  On  the  other  side  were  hollow 
after  hollow,  town  beyond  town,  each  with  its  cap  of 
morning  smoke.  There  was  New  Mills,  there  was 
Stockport,  there  in  the  far  distance  was  Manchester. 
The  boy  stood  a  moment  poised  between  the  two 
worlds,  his  ash-stick  in  his  hand,  the  old  coat  wound 
round  his  arm.  Then  at  a  bound  he  cleared  a  low 
stone  wall  beside  him  and  ran  down  the  Glossop 
road. 

Twelve  hours  later  Eeuben  Grieve  climbed  the  lonsc 
hill  to  the  farm.  His  wrinkled  face  was  happier  than 
it  had  been  for  months,  and  his  thoughts  were  so 
pleasantly  occupied  that  he  entirely  failed  to  perceive, 
for  instance,  the  behaviour  of  an  acquaintance,  who 
stopped  and  started  as  he  met  him  at  the  entrance  of 
the  Kinder  lane,  made  as  though  he  would  have  spoken, 
and,  thinking  better  of  it,  walked  on.  Reuben — the 
mendacious  Eeuben — had  done  very  well  with  his 
summer  stock — very  well  indeed.  And  part  of  his 
earnings  was  now  safely  housed  in  the  hands  of  an  old 
chapel  friend,  to  whom  he  had  confided  them  under 
pledge  of  secrecy.  But  he  took  a  curious,  excited 
pleasure  in  the  thought  of  the  'poor  mouth'  he  Avas 
going  to  make  to  Hannah.  He  was  growing  reckless 
in  his  passion  for  restitution — always  provided,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  not  called  upon  to  brave  his  wife 
openly.  A  few  more  such  irregular  savings,  and,  if  an 
opening  turned  up  for  David,  he  could  pay  the  money 
and  pack  off  the  lad  before  Hannah  could  look  round. 
He  could  never  do  it  under  her  opposition,  but  he 


ruAV.  XI  CFIII-DIICK-.n  1(19 

thought  he  could  do  it  and  take  the  consequences — he 
(Iion(/ht  lie  could. 

He  oi>(,'iK'il  his  own  gate.  There  on  tlie  house  door- 
step stood  Hannah,  whiter  and  grimmer  tlian  ever. 

'Reuben  Grieve/  she  said  quickly,  'your  nevvy's 
run  away.  An  if  yo  doan't  coom  and  keep  your  good- 
for-notliin  niece  in  her  place,  and  make  udder  foak 
keep  a  civil  tongue  i'  their  head  to  your  wife,  I'll 
leave  your  house  this  neet,  as  sure  as  I  wor  born  a 
Martin ! ' 

Eeuben  stumbled  into  the  house.  There  was  a  wild 
rush  downstairs,  and  Louie  fell  upon  him,  David's 
blow  showing  ghastly  plain  in  her  white  quivering 
face. 

'  Whar's  Davy  ? '  she  said.  'Yo've  got  hiral — he's 
hid  soomwhere — yo  know  whar  he  is !  I'll  not  stay 
here  if  yo  conno  find  him  I  It  wor  her  fault ' — and  she 
threw  out  a  shaking  hand  towards  her  aunt — 'she 
druv  him  out  last  neet — an  Dawsons  took  him  in — 
an  iverybody's  cryin  shame  on  her!  An  if  yo  doan't 
mak  her  find  him — she  knows  where  he  is — I'll  not 
stav  in  this  hole  !— I'll  kill  her !— I'll  burn  th'  house  ! 
— I'll ' 

The  child  stopped — panting,  choked — beside  her- 
self. 

Hannah  made  a  threatening  step,  but  at  her  gesture 
Reuben  sprang  up,  and  seizing  her  by  both  wrists  he 
looked  at  her  from  a  height,  as  a  judge  looks.  Xever 
had  those  dull  eyes  met  her  so  before. 

'  Woman  ! '  he  cried  fiercely.  '  "Woman  !  what  ba 
yo  doon  wi  Sandy's  son  ? ' 


BOOK  II 
YOUTH 


CHAPTER   I 

A  TALL  youth  carrying  a  parcel  of  books  under  his 
arm  was  hurrying  along  Market  Place,  Manchester. 
Beside  him  were  covered  flower  stalls  bordering  the 
])avement,  in  front  of  liim  the  domed  mass  of  the 
^fauchester  Exchange,  and  on  all  sides  he  had  to  jjush 
his  way  through  a  crowd  of  talking,  chaffering,  hurry- 
ing humanity.  Presently  he  stopped  at  the  door  of  a 
restaurant  bearing  the  idyllic  and  altogether  remark- 
able name — there  it  was  in  gilt  letters  over  the  door 
— of  the  '  Fruit  and  Flowers  Parlour.'  On  the  side 
post  of  the  door  a  bill  of  fare  was  posted,  which  the 
young  man  looked  up  and  down  with  careful  eyes.  It 
contained  a  strange  medley  of  items  in  all  tongues — 

Marrow  pie 

Haricots  a  la  Lune  de  Miel 

Vol-du-Vent  a  la  bonne  Sanle 

Tomato  fritters 

Clieese  'Ticements 

Salad  saladorum 

And  at  the  bottom  of  the  menu  was  printed  in  bold 
red  characters,  '  No  meat,  no  disease.  Ergo,  no  meat, 
no  sin.  Fellow-citizens,  leave  your  carnal  foods,  and 
try  a  more  excellent  way.  I.E.  Push  the  door  and 
walk  in.  The  Fruit  and  Flowers  Parlour  invites 
everybody  and  overcharges  nobody.' 

The  youth  did  not  trouble,  however,  to  read  the 


204  THE   HISTOEY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

notice.  He  knew  it  and  the  '  Parlour '  behind  it  by 
heart.  But  he  moved  away,  pondering  the  menu  with 
a  smile. 

In  his  amused  abstraction — at  the  root  of  which  lay 
the  appetite  of  eighteen — he  suddenly  ran  into  a 
passer-by,  who  stumbled  against  a  shop  window  with 
an  exclamation  of  pain.  The  youth's  attention  was 
attracted  and  he  stopped  awkwardly. 

'  People  of  your  height,  young  man,  should  look  be- 
fore them,'  said  the  victim,  rubbing  what  seemed  to 
be  a  deformed  leg,  while  his  lips  paled  a  little. 

'  Mr.  Ancrum,'  cried  the  other,  amazed. 

'  Davy ! ' 

The  two  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Mr.  Ancrum 
gripped  the  lad's  arm. 

'  Help  me  along,  Davy.  It's  only  a  bruise.  It'll  go 
off.     Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

'  Up  Piccadilly  way  with  a  parcel,'  said  Davy,  look- 
ing askance  at  his  companion's  nether  man.  'Did  I 
knock  your  bad  leg,  sir  ? ' 

'Oh  no,  nothing — never  mind.  Well  now,  Davy, 
this  is  queer — decidedly  queer.  Pour  years  ! — and  we 
run  against  each  other  in  Market  Street  at  last.  Tell 
me  the  truth,  Davy — have  you  long  ago  given  me  up 
as  a  man  who  could  make  promises  to  a  lad  in  difficul- 
ties and  forget  'em  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  ? 
Say  it  out,  my  boy.' 

David  flushed  and  looked  down  at  his  companion 
with  some  embarrassment.  Their  old  relation  of 
Tninister  and  pupil  had  left  a  deep  mark  behind  it. 
Moreover,  in  the  presence  of  that  face  of  Mr.  An- 
crum's,  a  long,  thin,  slightly  twisted  face,  with  the 
stamp  somehow  of  a  tragic  sincerity  on  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  it  was  difficult  to  think  as  slightingly  of  his 
old  friend  as  he  had  done  for  a  good  while  past,  appar- 
ently with  excellent  reason. 


CHAP.    I 


YOUTH  205 


*I  supposed  there  was  something  the  matter/  lie 
blurted  out  at  last. 

'Well,  never  mind,  Dav}-,'  said  the  other,  smiling 
sadly.  'We  can't  talk  here  in  this  din.  But  now 
I've  got  you,  I  keep  you.     Where  are  you  ?  ' 

'I'm  in  Half  Street,  sir — Purcell's,  the  bookseller.' 

'  Don't  know  him.  I  never  go  into  a  shop.  I  have 
no  money.     Are  you  apprentice  there  ?  ' 

'  Well,  there  was  no  binding.  I'm  assistant.  I  do 
a  lot  of  business  one  way  and  another,  buying  and 
selling  both.' 

'  How  long  have  you  been  iu  Manchester  ?  ' 

'Four  years,  sir.' 

The  minister  looked  amazed. 

'And  I  have  been  here,  off  and  on,  for  the  last 
three.  How  have  we  missed  each  other  all  that  time  ? 
I  made  inquiries  at  Clough  End,  when — ah,  well,  no 
matter ;  but  it  was  too  late.  You  had  decamped,  no 
one  could  tell  me  anything.' 

David  walked  on  beside  his  companion,  silent  and 
awkward.  The  explanation  seemed  a  lame  one.  ]\Ir. 
Ancrum  had  left  Clough  End  in  May,  promising  to 
look  out  for  a  place  for  the  lad  at  once,  and  to  let  him 
know.  Six  whole  months  elapsed  between  that  prom- 
ise and  David's  own  departure.  Yes,  it  was  lame; 
but  it  was  so  long  ago,  and  so  many  things  had  hap- 
pened since,  that  it  did  not  signify.  Only  he  did  not 
somehow  feel  much  effusion  in  meeting  his  old  friend 
and  playfellow  again. 

'  Getting  on,  Davy  ? '  said  Ancrum  presently,  look- 
ing the  lad  up  and  down. 

David  made  a  movement  of  the  shoulders  which  the 
minister  noticed.  It  Avas  both  more  free  and  more 
graceful  than  ordinary  English  gesture.  It  reawak- 
ened in  Ancrum  at  once  that  impression  of  something 
alien  and  unusual  which  both  David  and  his   sister 


20G  THK    HISTORY   OF   DAVTD   ORTEVE       hook  h 

had  often  produced  iu  hiia  while  they  were  still 
children. 

'I  don't  know,'  said  the  boy  slowly;  and  then,  after 
a  hesitation  or  two,  fell  silent. 

'Well,  look  here,'  said  Ancrum,  stopping  short; 
'  this  won't  do  for  talk,  as  I  said  before ;  but  I  must 
know  all  about  you,  and  I  must  tell  you  what  I  can 
about  myself.  I  lodge  in  Mortimer  lioad,  you  know, 
up  Fallowfield  way.  You  can  get  there  by  tram  in 
twenty  minutes  ;  when  will  you  come  and  see  me  ? 
To-night  ? ' 

The  lad  thought  a  moment. 

'Would  Wednesday  night  do,  sir?  I — I  believe  I'm 
going  to  the  music  to-night.' 

'What,  to  the  "Elijah,"  in  the  Free  Trade  Hall? 
Appoint  me  a  place  to  meet — we'll  go  together — and 
you  shall  come  home  to  supper  with  me  afterwards.' 

David  flushed  and  looked  straight  before  him. 

'  I  promised  to  take  two  young  ladies,'  he  said,  after 
a  moment,  abruptly. 

'Oh!'  said  Mr.  Ancrum,  laughing.  'I  apologise. 
Well,  Wednesday  night,  then, — Don't  you  forget, 
Davy — half-past  seven  ?  Done.  14,  Mortimer  Road. 
Good-bye.' 

And  the  minister  turned  and  retraced  his  steps 
towards  Market  Place.  He  walked  slowly,  like  one 
much  preoccupied,  and  might  have  run  into  fresh 
risks  but  for  the  instinctive  perception  of  most 
passers-by  that  he  was  not  a  person  to  be  hustled. 
Suddenly  he  laughed  out — thinking  of  David  and  his 
'young  ladies,'  and  comparing  the  lad's  admission  with 
his  former  attitude  towards  '  gells.'  Well,  time  had 
but  wrought  its  natural  work.  What  a  brilliant 
noticeable  creature  altogether — how  unlike  the  ordi- 
nary run  of  north-country  lads !  But  that  he  had 
been  from  the  beginning — the  strain  of  some  nimbler 
blood  had  always  shown  itself. 


CHAP.  I  YOUTH  207 

Meanwhile,  David  made  his  way  up  Piccadill}- — 
did  some  humourist  divert  himself,  in  days  gone  by, 
with  dropping  a  shower  of  London  names  on  !Man- 
chester  streets  ? — and  deposited  his  parcel.  Then  the 
great  clock  of  the  Exchange  struck  twelve,  and  the 
Cathedral  followed  close  upon  it,  the  sounds  swaying 
and  vibrating  al)Ove  the  crowds  hurrying  through 
Market  Street.  It  was  a  damp  October  day.  Above, 
the  sky  was  hidden  by  a  dark  canopy  of  cloud  and 
smoke  ;  the  Cathedral  on  its  hill  rose  iron-black  above 
the  black  streets  and  river ;  black  miul  encrusted  all 
the  streets,  and  bespattered  those  that  walked  in  them. 
Nothing  more  dreary  than  the  smoke-grimed  buildings 
on  either  hand,  than  the  hideous  railway  station  across 
the  bridge,  or  the  mud-sprinkled  hoardings  covered 
with  flaring  advertisements,  which  led  up  to  the  bridge, 
could  be  well  imagined.  ^Manchester  was  at  its  darkest 
and  grimmest. 

P)Ut  as  David  Grieve  walked  back  along  Market 
Street  his  heart  danced  within  him.  iS'ei.ther  mud  nor 
darkness,  neither  the  S(pialor  of  the  streets,  nor  the 
penetrating  damp  of  the  air,  affected  him  at  all.  The 
crowd,  the  rush  of  life  about  him,  the  gas  in  the  shops, 
the  wares  on  which  it  shone,  the  endless  faces  passing 
him,  the  sense  of  hurry,  of  business,  of  quick  living — 
he  saw  and  felt  nothing  else ;  and  to  these  his  youth 
was  all  atune. 

Arrived  in  Market  Place  again  he  made  his  way 
with  alacrity  to  the  'I'arlour.'  For  it  was  dinner 
time ;  he  had  a  free  half-hour,  and  nine  times  out  of 
ten  he  spent  it  at  tlie  '  Parlour.' 

He  walked  in,  put  his  hat  on  its  accustomed  peg, 
took  his  seat  at  a  table  near  the  door,  and  looked 
round  for  some  one.  The  low  widespreading  room 
■was  Avell  tilled,  mostly  with  clerks  and  shopmen  ;  the 
gas   was   lit   because   of   the   darkness   outside,    and 


208  THE   IITSTOKY  OF   DAVTD   GKTEVE      rook  ii 

showed  off  the  gay  panels  on  tlie  walls  filled  with 
fruit  and  flower  subjects,  for  which  Adrian  O'Connor 
Lomax,  commonly  called  '  Daddy,'  the  owner  of  the 
restaurant,  had  given  a  commission  to  some  students 
at  the  Mechanics'  Institute,  and  whereof  he  was 
inordinately  proud.  At  the  end  of  the  room  near  the 
counter  was  a  table  occupied  by  about  half  a  dozen 
young  men,  all  laughing  and  talking  noisily,  and 
beside  them — shouting,  gesticulating,  making  dashes, 
now  for  one,  now  for  another — was  a  figure,  which 
David  at  once  set  himself  to  watch,  his  chin  balanced 
on  his  hand,  his  eyes  dancing.  It  was  the  thin  tall 
figure  of  an  oldish  man  in  a  long  frock-coat,  which 
opened  in  front  over  a  gaily  flowered  silk  waistcoat. 
On  the  bald  crown  of  his  head  he  wore  a  black  skull- 
cap, below  which  certain  grotesque  and  scanty  tails 
of  fair  hair,  carefully  brushed,  fell  to  his  shoulders. 
His  face  was  long  and  sharply  pointed,  and  the  sur- 
face of  it  bronzed  and  wrinkled  by  long  exposure,  out 
of  all  likeness  to  human  skin.  The  eyes  were  weirdly 
prominent  and  blue ;  the  gestures  had  the  deliberate 
extravagance  of  an  actor ;  and  the  whole  man  recalled 
a  wizard  of  pantomime. 

David  had  hardly  time  to  amuse  himself  with  the 
'  chaffing '  of  Daddy,  which  was  going  on,  and  which 
went  on  habitually  at  the  Parlour  from  morning  till 
night,  when  Daddy  perceived  a  new-comer. 

He  turned  round  sharp  upon  his  heels,  surveyed  the 
room  with  the  frown  of  a  general. 

'Ah ! '  he  said  with  a  theatrical  air,  as  he  made  out 
the  lad  at  the  further  table.  'Gentlemen,  I  let  you  off 
for  the  present,'  and  waving  his  hand  to  them  Avith  an 
indulgent  self-importance,  which  provoked  a  roar  of 
laughter,  he  turned  and  walked  down  the  restaurant, 
with  a  quick  swaying  gait,  to  where  David  sat. 

David   made   room  for  him    in  a  smiling   silence. 


CHAP.    I 


YOUTH  209 


Lomax    sat    down,    and    the    two    looked    at    each 
other. 

'Davy,'  said  Daddy  severely,  'why  weren't  you 
here  yesterday  '' ' 

'  When  did  you  begin  opening  on  Sundays,  Daddy  ? ' 
said  the  youth,  attacking  a  portion  of  marrow  pie, 
which  luul  just  been  laid  before  him,  his  gay  curious 
eyes  still  wandering  over  Daddy's  costume,  whicli  was 
to-day  completed  by  a  large  dahlia  in  the  buttonhole, 
as  grotesque  as  the  rest. 

'  Ah  bedad,  but  I'm  losing  my  memory  entirely  ; — 
and  you  know  it,  you  varmint.  Well  tlien,  it  was 
Saturday  you  weren't  here.' 

'  You're  about  right  there.  I  was  let  off  early,  and 
got  a  walk  out  Ramsbottom  way  with  a  fellow.  I 
hadn't  stretched  my  legs  for  two  months,  and — I'll 
confess  to  you,  Daddy — that  when  we  got  down  from  • 
the  moor,  I  was — overtaken — as  the  pious  people  say 
— by  a  mutton  chop.' 

The  lad  looked  up  at  him  laughing.  Daddy  sur- 
veyed him  with  chagrin. 

'I  knew  you  were  a  worthless  lukewarm  sort  of  a 
creature.  Flesh-eating  's  as  bad  as  drink  for  them 
that  have  got  it  in  'em.  It  '11  come  out.  Well,  go 
your  ways  !      YouHl  never  be  Prime  Minister.' 

'Don't  distress  yourself,  Daddy.  As  long  as  mar- 
row pies  are  good,  I  shall  eat  "em — you  may  count  on 
that.  What's  that  cheese  affair  down  there  ? '  and 
he  pointed  towards  the  last  item  but  one  in  the  bill 
of  fare.  Instead  of  answering,  the  old  man  turned  on 
his  seat,  and  called  to  one  of  the  waitresses  near.  In 
a  second  David  had  a  'Cheese  'Ticement'  before  him, 
at  which  he  peered  curiously.  Daddy  watched  him, 
not  without  some  signs  of  nervousness. 

'Daddy,'  said  David  calmly  looking  up,  'when  I 
last  saw  this  article  it  was  called  ■•  Welsh  rabbit." ' 

VOL.  I  p 


210  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

'Davy,  yoivve  no  soul  for  fine  distinctions,'  said 
the  other  hastily.  'Change  the  subject.  How  have 
my  dear  brother-in-law  and  you  been  hitting  it  off 
lately  ? ' 

David  went  on  with  his  '  'Ticenient,'  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  twitching,  for  a  minute  or  so,  then  he 
raised  his  head  and  slowly  shook  it,  looking  Daddy  in 
the  face. 

'  We  shall  bear  up  when  we  say  good-bye,  Daddy, 
and  I  don't  think  that  crisis  is  far  off.  It  would  have 
come  long  ago,  only  I  do  happen  to  know  a  provoking 
deal  more  about  books  than  any  assistant  he  ever  had 
before.  Last  week  I  picked  him  up  a  copy  of  "  Bells 
and  Pomegranates "  for  one  and  nine,  and  he  sold  it 
next  day  for  two  pound  sixteen.  There's  business  for 
you,  Daddy,  That  put  off  our  breach  at  least  a  fort- 
night, but  unless  I  discover  a  first  folio  of  Shakes- 
peare for  sixpence  between  now  and  then,  I  don't  see 
what's  to  postpone  the  agony  after  that — and  if  I  did 
I  should  probably  speculate  in  it  myself.  No,  Daddy, 
it's  coming  to  the  point,  as  the  tiger  said  when  he 
reached  the  last  joint  of  the  cow's  tail.  And  it's  your 
fault.' 

'  My  fault,  Davy,'  said  Lomax,  half  tremulous,  half 
delighted,  drawing  a  chair  close  up  to  the  table  that 
he  might  lose  nothing  of  the  youth's  confidences. 
'  What  d'ye  mean  by  that,  ye  spalpeen  ?  ' 

'  Well,  wasn't  it  you  took  me  to  the  Hall  of  Science, 
Daddy,  and  couldn't  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  your  head 
about  it  afterwards  ?  Wasn't  it  you  lent  me  the 
"Secularist,"  which  got  me  into  the  worst  rumpus  of 
the  season  ?     Oh,  Daddy,  you're  a  bad  un  ! ' 

And  the  handsome  lad  leant  back  in  his  chair, 
stretching  his  long  legs  and  studying  Daddy  with 
twinkling  eyes.  As  for  Lomax,  he  received  the 
onslaught  with  a  curious  mixture   of  exjiressions,  in 


CHAP.    I 


VnCTII  211 


which  a  certain  malicious  pleasure,  crossed  by  au 
uneasy  sense  of  responsibility,  was  the  most  promi- 
nent. He  sat  drumming  on  the  table,  liis  straggling 
beard  falling  forward  on  to  his  chest,  his  mouth  purs- 
ing itself  up.  At  last  he  threw  back  his  head  Avith 
energy. 

Til  not  excuse  myself,  Davy;  you're  well  out  of 
it.  You'll  be  a  great  man  yet — always  provided  you 
can  manage  yourself  in  the  matter  of  flesh  meat.  It 
was  to  come  one  way  or  the  other — you  couldn't  put 
up  much  longer  with  such  a  puke-stocking  as  my 
precious  brother-in-law.  (That's  one  of  the  great 
points  of  Shakespeare,  Davy,  my  lad — perhaps  you 
haven't  noticed  it — you  get  such  a  ruck  of  bad  names 
out  of  him  fur  the  asking !  Puke-stocking  is  good — 
real  good.  If  it  wasn't  made  for  a  sanctimonious 
hypocrite  of  a  Baptist  like  Purcell  it  ought  to  have 
been.)  And  "  Spanish-pouch  "  too  !  Oh,  I  love  "  Span- 
ish-pouch "  !  When  I've  called  a  man  "  Spanish-pouch," 
I'm  the  better  for  it,  Davy — the  bile's  relieved.' 

'  Thank  you.  Daddy ;  I'll  remember  the  receipt.  I 
say,  were  you  ever  in  Purcell's  shop  ? ' 

'  Purcell's  shop  ?  Why,  of  course  I  was,  yon  var- 
mint !  Wasn't  it  there  I  met  my  Isabella,  his  sister  ? 
Ah,  the  poor  thing  !  He  led  her  a  life ;  and  when  I 
was  his  assistant  I  took  sides  with  her — that  was  the 
beginning  of  it  all.  At  first  we  hadn't  got  on  so 
badly — 1  had  a  pious  fit  on  myself  in  those  days — but 
one  day  at  tea,  I  had  been  making  free — taking  Isa- 
bella's part.  There  had  been  a  neighbour  there,  and 
the  laugh  had  been  against  him.  Well,  after  tea  we 
marched  back  to  the  shop,  and  says  he  to  me,  as  black 
as  thunder,  "I'm  quite  willing,  Lomax,  to  be  your 
Christian  brother  in  here :  when  we're  in  society  I'd 
have  you  remember  it's  different.  You  should  know 
your   place."     '•'  Oh,   should  I  ?  "    says  I.     (Isabella 


212  THE   HTSTOEY  OF  DAVTD   OT^IEVE       book  ii 

had  been  squeezing  my  hand  under  the  table  and  I 
didn't  care  what  I  said.)     "Well,  you'd   better  find 

some   one  as   will,  and  be  d d  to  your  Christian 

brotherhood."  And  I  took  my  cap  up  and  marched 
out,  leaving  him  struck  a  pillar  of  salt  with  surprise, 
and  that  mad  I — for  we  were  in  the  middle  of  issuing 
the  New  Year's  catalogue,  and  he'd  left  most  of  it  to 
me.     And  three  weeks  after ' 

Daddy  rose  qiiivering  with  excitement,  put  his 
thumbs  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  bent  over  the 
back  of  his  chair  towards  David.  As  he  stood  there, 
on  tip-toe,  the  flaps  of  the  long  coat  falling  back  from 
him  like  wings,  his  skull-cap  slightly  awry,  two  red 
spots  on  either  wrinkled  cheek,  and  every  feature  of 
the  sharp  brown  face  alive  with  the  joy  of  his  long- 
past  vengeance,  he  was  like  some  strange  perching 
bird. 

' — Three  weeks  after,  Davy,  I  married  my  Isabella 
under  his  puritanical  nose,  at  the  chapel  across  the 
way  ;  and  the  bit  of  spite  in  it — bedad  ! — it  was  like 
mustard  to  beef.  (Pish  !  what  am  I  abont !)  And  I 
set  up  shop  almost  next  door  to  the  chapel,  and  took 
the  trade  out  of  his  mouth,  and  enjoyed  myself  finely 
for  six  months.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  gave  out 
that  the  neighbourhood  was  too  "  low  "  for  him,  and 
he  moved  up  town.  And  though  I've  been  half  over 
the  Avorld  since,  I've  never  ceased  to  keep  an  eye  on 
him.  I've  had  a  finger  in  more  pies  of  his  than  he 
thinks  for  ! ' 

And  Daddy  drew  himself  up,  pressing  his  hands 
against  his  sides,  his  long  frame  swelling  out,  as  it 
seemed,  with  sudden  passion.  David  watched  him 
with  a  look  half  sympathetic,  half  satirical. 

'  I  don't  see  that  he  did  you  much  harm.  Daddy.' 

'Harm!'  said  the  little  man,  irascibly.  'Harm! 
I  must  say  you're  uncommon  slow  at  gripping  a  situ- 


ciivr.  I 


YOUTH  213 


ation,  Davy.  I'd  my  wife's  score  to  settle,  too,  I  tell 
you,  as  well  as  my  own.  He'd  sat  on  his  poor  easy- 
going sister  till  she  hadn't  a  feature  left.  I  knew  he 
had.  He's  made  up  of  all  the  mean  vices — and  at  the 
same  time,  if  you  were  to  hear  him  at  a  prayer  meet- 
ing, you'd  think  that  since  Enoch  went  up  to  heaven 
the  wrong  way,  the  world  didn't  hapi^en  to  have  been 
blessed  with  another  saint  to  match  Tom  Purcell.' 
And,  stirred  by  his  own  eloquence.  Daddy  looked 
down  frowning  on  the  youth  before  him. 

'  What  made  you  give  up  the  book-trade.  Daddy  ?  ' 
asked  David,  with  a  smile. 

It  was  like  the  pricking  of  a  bladder.  Daddy  col- 
lapsed in  a  moment.  Sitting  down  again,  he  began 
to  arrange  his  coat  elaborately  over  his  knees,  as 
though  to  gain  time. 

'David,  you're  an  inquisitive  varmint,'  he  said  at 
last,  looking  up  askance  at  his  companion.  'Some 
one's  been  telling  you  tales,  by  the  look  of  you.  Look 
here — if  Tom  Purcell's  a  blathering  hypocrite,  that  is 
not  the  same  thing  precisely  as  saying  that  Adrian 
O'Connor  Lomax  is  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  domes- 
tic virtues.  Never  you  mind,  my  boy,  what  made  me 
give  up  book-selling.  I've  chucked  so  many  things 
overboard  since,  that  it's  hardly  worth  inquiring.  Try 
any  trade  you  like  and  Daddy  '11  be  able  to  give  you 
some  advice  in  it — that's  the  only  thing  that  concerns 
yoTi.  Well  now,  tell  me — '  and  he  turned  round  and 
•  put  his  elbows  on  the  table,  leaning  over  to  David — 
'  When  are  you  coming  away,  and  what  are  your 
prospects  ? ' 

'  I   told   you   about   a  fortnight  would  see  it  out, 

Daddy.    And  there's  a  little  shop  in But  it's  no 

good.  Daddy.     You  can't  keep  secrets.' 

The  old  man  turned  purple,  drew  himself  up,  and 
looked  fiercely  at  David  from  behind  his  spectacles. 


214  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

But  in  a  second  Ids  mood  changed  and  he  stretched 
his  hand  slowly  out  across  the  table. 

'  On  the  honour  of  a  Lomax/  he  said  solemnly. 

There  was  a  real  dignity  about  the  absurd  action 
which  melted  David.  He  shook  the  hand  and  re- 
pented him.  Leaning  over  he  whispered  some  infor- 
mation in  Daddy's  ear.  Daddy  beamed.  And  in  the 
midst  of  the  superfluity  of  nods  and  winks  that  fol- 
lowed David  called  for  his  bill. 

The  action  recalled  Daddy  to  his  own  affairs,  and 
he  looked  on  complacently  while  David  paid. 

'  'Pon  my  word,  Davy,  I  can  hardly  yet  believe  in 
my  own  genius.  Where  else,  my  boy,  in  this  cotton- 
spinning  hole,  would  you  find  a  dinner  like  that  for 
sixpence  ?  Am  I  a  benefactor  to  the  species,  sir,  or 
am  I  not  ?  ' 

'  Looks  like  it.  Daddy,  by  the  help  of  Miss  Dora.' 

'  Aye,  aye,'  said  the  old  man  testily, — '  I'll  not  deny 
that  Dora's  useful  to  the  business.  But  the  ins2)ira- 
tion,  Davy,  's  all  mine.  You  want  genius,  my  boy, 
to  make .  a  tomfool  of  yourself  like  this,'  and  he 
looked  himself  proudly  up  and  down.  'Twenty 
customers  a  week  come  here  for  nothing  in  the  world 
but  to  see  Avhat  new  rigs  Daddy  may  be  up  to.  The 
invention — the  happy  ideas,  man,  I  throw  into  one 
day  of  this  place  would  stock  twenty  ordinary  busi- 
nesses.' 

'All  the  same,  Daddy,  I've  tasted  Welsh  rabbit 
before,'  said  David  drily,  putting  on  his  hat. 

'  I  scorn  your  remark,  sir.  It  argues  a  poorly  fur- 
nished mind.  Show  me  anything  new  in  this  used-up 
world,  eh  ?  but  for  the  name  and  the  dishing  up — 
Well,  good-bye,  Davy,  and  good  luck  to  you  ! ' 

David  made  his  way  across  Hanging  Ditch  to  a 
little  row  of   houses   bearing  the  baldly  appropriate 


ruAP.  I 


YOUTH  215 


name  of  Half  Street.  It  ran  along  the  eastern  side  of 
the  Cathedral  close.  First  came  the  houses,  small, 
irregular,  with  old  beams  and  projections  here  and 
there,  then  a  pavcMl  footway,  then  the  railings  round 
the  Close.  In  full  view  of  the  windows  of  the  street 
rose  the  sixteenth-century  church  which  plays  as  best 
it  can  the  part  of  Cathedral  to  Manchester.  Eound  it 
stretched  a  black  and  desolate  space  paved  with  tomb- 
stones. Not  a  blade  of  grass  broke  the  melancholy  of 
those  begrimed  and  time-worn  slabs.  The  rain  lay 
among  them  in  pools,  squalid  buildings  overlooked 
them,  and  the  church,  with  its  manifest  inadequacy 
to  a  fine  site  and  a  great  city,  did  l)ut  little  towards 
overcoming  the  moan  and  harsh  impression  made — on 
such  a  day  especially — by  its  surroundings. 

David  opened  the  door  of  a  shop  about  halfway  up 
the  row.  A  bell  rang  sharply,  and  as  he  shut  the 
outer  door  behind  him,  another  at  the  back  of  the 
shop  opened  hastily,  and  a  young  girl  came  in. 

'  Mr.  Grieve,  father's  gone  out  to  Eccles  to  see  some 
books  a  gentleman  Avants  him  to  buy.  If  Mr.  Stephens 
comes,  you're  to  tell  him  father's  found  him  two  or 
three  more  out  of  the  list  he  sent.  You  know  where 
all  his  books  are  put  together,  if  he  wants  to  see 
them,  father  says.' 

'Yes,  thank  you,  Miss  Purcell,  I  do.  Xo  other 
message  ? ' 

-  'Xo.'  The  speaker  lingered.  'What  time  do  we 
start  for  the  music  to-night  ?  lUit  you'll  be  down  to 
tea?' 

'  Certainly,  if  you  and  Miss  Dora  don't  want  it  to 
yourselves.'  The  s])eaker  smiled.  He  was  leaning  on 
the  counter,  while  the  girl  stood  liehind  it. 

'Oh  dear,  no  ! '  said  ]\riss  Purcell  Avith  a  half-pettish 
gesture.     'I  don't  know  what  to  talk  to  Dora  about 


216  THE   HISTOKY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

now.  She  thinks  of  nothing  but  St.  Damian's  and 
her  work.  It's  worse  than  father.  And,  of  course,  I 
know  she  hasn't  much  o})inion  of  me.  Indeed,  she's 
always  telling  me  so — well,  not  exactly — but  she  lets 
me  guess  fast  enough.' 

The  speaker  puts  up  two  small  hands  to  straighten 
some  of  the  elaborate  curls  and  twists  with  which  her 
pretty  head  was  crowned.  There  was  a  little  conscious- 
ness in  the  action.  The  thought  of  her  cousin  had 
evidently  brought  with  it  the  thought  of  some  of 
those  things  of  which  the  stern  Dora  disapproved. 

David  looked  at  the  brown  hair  and  the  slim  fingers 
as  he  was  meant  to  look  at  them.  Yet  in  his  smiling 
good  humour  there  was  not  a  trace  of  bashfulness  or 
diffidence.  He  was  perfectly  at  his  ease,  with  some- 
thing of  a  proud  self-reliant  consciousness  in  every 
movement ;  nothing  in  his  manner  could  have  reminded 
a  spectator  of  the  traditional  apprentice  making  timid 
love  to  his  master's  daughter. 

'I've  seen  you  stand  up  to  her  though,'  he  said 
laughing.  '  It's  like  all  pious  people.  Doesn't  it 
strike  you  as  odd  that  they  should  never  be  content 
with  being  pious  for  themselves  ? ' 

He  looked  at  her  with  bright  sarcastic  eyes. 

'  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean ! '  she  said  with  an 
instant  change  of  tone  ;  '  I  didn't  mean  anything  of 
the  sort.  I  think  it's  shocking  of  you  to  go  to  that 
place  on  Sundays — so  tliere,  Mr.  Grieve.'  , 

She  threw  herself  back  defiantly  against  the  books 
which  walled  the  shop,  her  arms  folded  before  her. 
The  attitude  showed  the  long  tliroat,  the  rounded  bust, 
and  the  slender  waist  compressed  with  some  evident 
rigour  into  a  close-fitting  brown  dress.  That  Miss 
Purcell  thought  a  great  deal  of  the  fashion  of  her  hair, 
the  style  of  her  bodices,  and  the  size  of  her  waist  was 
clear ;  that  she  was  conscious  of  thinking  about  them 


CHAP.    I 


YorTir  217 


to  good  purpose  was  also  plain.  lUit  on  the  whole  the 
impression  of  artificiality,  of  something  over-studied 
and  over-done  which  the  first  sight  of  her  generally 
awakened,  was  soon,  as  a  rule,  lost  in  another  more 
attractive — in  one  of  light,  tripping  youth,  perfectly 
satisfied  with  itself  and  with  the  world. 

'  I  don't  think  you  know  much  about  the  place,'  he 
said  quietly,  still  smiling. 

She  flushed,  her  foolish  little  sense  of  natural  supe- 
riority to  '  the  assistant '  outraged  again,  as  it  had  been 
outraged  already  a  hundred  times  since  she  and  David 
Grieve  had  met. 

'  I  know  (piite  as  much  as  anybody  need  know — any 
respectable  person — '  she  maintained  angrily.  'It's  a 
low,  disgraceful  place — and  they  talk  wicked  nonsense. 
Everyone  says  so.  It  doesn't  matter  a  bit  where 
Uncle  Lomax  goes — he's  mad — but  it  is  a  shame  he 
should  lead  other  people  astray.' 

She  was  much  pleased  with  her  own  harangue,  and 
stood  there  frowning  on  him,  lier  sharp  little  chin  in 
the  air,  one  foot  beating  the  ground. 

'Well,  yes,  really,'  said  David  in  a  reflective  tone; 
'  one  would  think  Miss  Dora  had  her  hands  full  at 
home,  without ' 

He  looked  up,  significantly,  smiling.  Lucy  Purcell 
was  enraged  with  him — with  his  hypocritical  sympathy 
as  to  her  uncle's  misdoings — his  avoidance  of  his  own 
crime. 

'  'It's  not  uncle  at  all,  it's  you ! '  she  cried,  with  more 
logic  than  appeared.  'I  tell  you,  Mr.  Grieve,  father 
won't  stand  it.' 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up  from  the  counter. 

'No,'  he  said  with  great  equanimity,  'I  suppose  not.' 

And  taking  up  a  parcel  of  books  from  the  counter 
he  turned  away.  Lucy,  flurried  and  pouting,  called 
after  him. 


218  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

'Mr.  Grieve!' 

'Yes.' 

'I — I  didn't  mean  it.  I  hoxie  you  won't  go.  I  know 
father's  hard.     He's  hard  enough  with  me.' 

And  she  raised  her  hands  to  her  flushed  face.  David 
was  terribly  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry.  Several 
times  since  the  orphan  girl  of  seventeen  had  arrived 
from  school  three  months  before  to  take  her  place  in 
her  father's  house,  had  she  been  on  the  point  of  con- 
fiding her  domestic  woes  to  David  Grieve.  But  though 
under  the  terms  of  his  agreement  with  her  father, 
which  included  one  meal  in  the  back  parlour,  the 
assistant  and  she  were  often  thrown  together,  he  had 
till  now  instinctively  held  her  aloof.  His  extraordi- 
nary good  looks  and  masterful  energetic  ways  had  made 
an  impression  on  her  schoolgirl  mind  from  the  begin- 
ning. But  for  him  she  had  no  magnetism  whatever. 
The  little  self-conceited  creature  knew  it,  or  partially 
knew  it,  and  smarted  under  it. 

Now,  he  was  just  beginning  an  awkward  sentence, 
Avhen  there  was  a  sound  at  the  outer  door.  With 
another  look  at  him,  half  shy,  half  appealing,  Lucy 
fled.  Conscious  of  a  distinct  feeling  of  relief,  David 
went  to  attend  to  the  customer. 


CHAPTER   II 

The  customer  was  soon  content  and  went  out  again 
into  the  rain.  David  mounted  a  winding  iron  stair 
which  connected  the  downstairs  shop  with  an  upper 
room  in  which  a  large  proportioa  of  the  books  were 
stored.  It  was  a  long,  low,  rambling  place  made  by 
throwing  together  all  the  little  bits  of  rooms  on  the 
first  floor  of  the  old  house.     One  corner  of  it  had  a 


CHAP.    II 


YOUTH  219 


special  attraction  for  David.  It  was  the  corner  where, 
ranged  partly  on  the  floor,  partly  on  the  shelves 
which  ran  under  the  windows,  lay  the  collection  of 
books  that  Purcell  had  been  making  for  his  customer, 
Mr.  Stephens. 

Out  of  that  collection  Purcell's  assistant  had  ex- 
tracted a  very  varied  entertainment.  In  the  first  place 
it  had  amused  him  to  watch  the  laborious  pains  and 
anxiety  with  which  his  pious  employer  had  gathered 
together  the  very  sceptical  works  of  which  Mr. 
Stephens  was  in  want,  showing  a  knowledge  of  con- 
tents, and  editions,  and  out-of-the-way  profanities, 
under  the  stimulus  of  a  paying  customer,  which  drew 
many  a  sudden  laugh  from  David  when  he  was  left  to 
think  of  it  in  private. 

In  the  next  place  the  books  themselves  had  been  a 
perpetual  feast  to  him  for  weeks,  enjoyed  all  the  more 
keenly  because  of  the  secrecy  in  which  it  had  to  be 
devoured.  The  little  gathering  represented  with  fair 
completeness  the  chief  books  of  the  French  ^philo- 
sophers,' both  in  the  original  French,  and  in  those 
English  translations  of  which  so  plentiful  a  crop  made 
its  appearance  during  the  fifty  years  before  and  after 
1800.  There,  for  instance,  lay  the  seventy  volumes  of 
Voltaire.  Close  by  was  an  imperfect  copy  of  the 
Encyclopaedia,  which  Mr.  Stephens  was  getting  cheap ; 
on  the  other  side  a  motley  gathering  of  Diderot  and 
Eousseau ;  while  Holbaeh's  '  System  of  Nature,'  and 
Helvetius  'On  the  Mind,'  held  their  rightful  place 
among  the  rest. 

Through  these  books,  then,  which  had  now  been  on 
the  premises  for  some  time — i\Ir.  Stephens  being  a 
person  of  uncertain  domicile,  and  unable  as  yet  to  find 
them  a  home — David  had  been  freely  ranging.  When- 
ever Purcell  was  out  of  the  way  and  customers  were 
slack,  he  invariably  found  his  way  to  this  spot  in  the 


220  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       hook  ii 

upper  room.  There,  with  his  elbows  on  the  top  of  the 
bookcase  which  ran  under  the  window,  and  a  book  in 
front  of  him — or  generally  tAvo,  the  original  French 
and  a  translation — he  had  read  Voltaire's  tales,  a  great 
deal  of  the  Encyclopsedia,  a  certain  amount  of  Diderot, 
for  w'hom  he  cherished  a  passionate  admiration,  and  a 
much  smaller  smattering  of  Rousseau.  At  the  present 
moment  he  was  grappling  with  the  'Dietionnaire 
Philosophique,'  and  the  '  Systeme  de  la  Nature,'  forti- 
fied in  both  cases  by  English  versions. 

The  gloom  of  the  afternoon  deepened,  and  the  in- 
creasing rain  had  thinned  the  streets  so  much  that 
during  a  couple  of  hours  David  had  but  three  sum- 
monses from  below  to  attend  to.  For  the  rest  of  the 
time  lie  was  buried  in  the  second  volume  of  the  '  Die- 
tionnaire Philosophique,'  now  skipping  freely,  now 
chewing  and  digesting,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the 
darkening  church  outside.  Above  all,  the  article  on 
Contradict hvs  had  absorbed  and  delighted  him.  There 
are  few  tones  in  themselves  so  fascinating  to  the 
nascent  literary  sense  as  this  mock  humility  tone  of 
Voloaire's.  And  in  David's  case  all  that  passionate 
sense  of  a  broken  bubble  and  a  scattered  dream,  which 
had  haunted  him  so  long  after  he  left  Kinder,  had 
entered  into  and  helped  forward  his  infatuation  with 
his  new  masters.  They  brought  him  an  indescribable 
sense  of  freedom — omniscience  almost. 

For  instance  : — 

'  We  must  carefully  distinguish  in  all  writings,  and  especially 
in  the  sacred  books,  between  real  and  apparent  contradictions. 
Venturous  critics  have  supposed  a  contradiction  existed  in  that 
passage  of  Scripture  which  narrates  how  Moses  changed  all  the 
waters  of  Egyjit  into  blood,  and  how  immediately  afterwards 
the  magicians  of  Pharaoli  did  the  same  thing,  tlie  book  of  Exo- 
dus allowing  no  interval  at  all  between  the  miracle  of  Moses 
and  the  magical  ope  ration  of  the  enchanters.     Certainly  it  seems 


CHAP.    II 


YOUTH  221 


at  first  sight  impossible  that  these  magicians  should  change  into 
blood  what  was  already  blood;  but  this  difficulty  may  be 
avoided  by  supposing  that  Moses  had  allowed  tlie  waters  to  re- 
assume  their  proper  nature,  in  order  to  give  time  to  Pharaoh  to 
recover  himself.  This  supposition  is  all  the  more  plausible,  see- 
ing that  the  text,  if  it  does  not  favour  it  expressly,  is  not  op- 
posed to  it. 

'  The  same  sceptics  ask  how  when  all  the  horses  had  been 
killed  by  the  hail  in  the  sixth  plague  Pharaoh  could  pursue  the 
Jews  with  cavalry.  But  this  contradiction  is  not  even  appar- 
ent, because  the  hail,  which  killed  all  the  horses  in  the  fields, 
could  not  fall  upon  those  which  were  in  the  stables.' 

And  so  on  through  a  long  series  of  paragraphs, 
leading  at  last  to  matters  specially  dear  to  the  wit  of 
Voltaire,  the  contradictions  between  St.  Luke  and  St. 
Matthew — in  the  story  of  the  census  of  Quirinus,  of 
the  Magi,  of  the  massacre  of  the  Innocents,  and  what 
not — and  culminating  in  this  innocent  conclusion  : — 

'  After  all  it  is  enough  that  God  should  have  deigned  to  reveal 
to  us  the  principal  mysteries  of  the  faith,  and  that  He  should 
have  instituted  a  Church  in  the  course  of  time  to  explain  them. 
All  these  contradictions,  so  often  and  so  bitterly  brought  up 
against  the  Gospels,  are  amply  noticed  by  the  wisest  commen- 
tators ;  far  from  harming  each  other,  one  explains  another ; 
they  lend  each  other  a  mutual  support,  both  in  the  concordance 
and  in  the  harmony  of  the  four  Gospels.' 

David  threw  back  his  head  with  a  laugh  which  came 
from  the  very  depths  of  him.  Then,  suddenly,  he  was 
conscious  of  the  church  standing  sombrely  without, 
spectator  as  it  seemed  of  his  thoughts  and  of  his  mirth. 
Instantly  his  youth  met  the  challenge  by  a  rise  of  pas- 
sionate scorn !  What !  a  hundred  years  since  Vol- 
taire, and  mankiud  still  went  on  believing  in  all  these 
follies  and  fables,  in  the  ten  plagues,  in  Balaam's  ass, 
in  the  walls  of  Jericho,  in  miraculous  births,  and 
Magi,  and  prophetic  stars  I — in  everything  that  the 
mockery  of  the  eighteenth  century  had  slain  a  thou- 


222  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

sand  times  over.  Ah,  well ! — Voltaire  knew  as  well 
as  anybody  that  superstition  is  perennial,  insatiable — ■ 
a  disease  and  weakness  of  the  human  mind  which 
seems  to  be  inherent  and  ineradicable.  And  there 
rose  in  the  boy's  memory  lines  he  had  opened  upon 
that  morning  in  a  small  Elizabethan  folio  he  had  been 
cataloguing  with  much  pains  as  a  rarity — lines  which 
had  stuck  in  his  mind — 

Vast  superstition!  glorious  style  of  weakness, 
Sprung  from  the  deep  disquiet  of  man's  passion 
To  dissolution  and  despair  of  Nature! — 

He  flung  them  out  at  the  dark  mass  of  building  oppo- 
site, as  though  he  were  his  namesake  flinging  at  Goli- 
ath. Only  a  few  months  before  that  great  church 
had  changed  masters — had  passed  from  the  hands  of 
an  aristocratic  and  inaccessible  bishop  of  the  old 
school  into  those  of  a  man  rich  in  all  modern  ideas 
and  capacities,  full  of  energy  and  enthusiasm,  a 
scholar  and  administrator  both.  And  he  believed  all 
those  absurdities,  David  wanted  to  know  ?  Impossi- 
ble !  No  honest  man  could,  thought  the  lad  defiantly, 
with  a  rising  colour  of  crude  and  vehement  feeling, 
when  his  attention  had  been  once  challenged,  and  he 
had  developed  mind  enough  to  know  what  the  chal- 
lenge meant. 

Except,  perhaps.  Uncle  Reuben  and  Dora  Lomax, 
and  people  like  that.  He  stood  thinking  and  staring 
out  of  window,  one  idea  leading  to  another.  The 
thought  of  Reuben  brought  with  it  a  certain  softening 
of  mood — the  softening  of  memory  and  old  association. 
Yes,  he  would  like  to  see  Uncle  Reuben  again — explain 
to  him,  perhaps,  that  old  story — so  old,  so  distant ! — 
of  his  running  away.  Well,  he  ivould  see  him  again, 
as  soon  as  he  got  a  place  of  his  own,  which  couldn't 
be  long  now,  whether  Purcell  gave  him  the  sack  or  not. 


CHAP.  II  YOUTH  223 

Instinctively,  he  felt  for  that  inner  pocket,  which  held 
his  purse  and  his  savings-bank  book.  Yes,  he  was 
near  freedom  now,  whatever  happened  ! 

Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  unlucky  he 
should  have  stumbled  across  Mr.  Ancrum  just  at  this 
particular  juncture.  The  minister,  of  course,  had 
friends  at  Clough  End  still.  And  he,  David,  didn't 
want  Louie  down  upon  him  just  yet — not  just  yet — 
for  a  month  or  two. 

Then  the  smile  which  had  begun  to  play  about  the 
mouth  suddenly  broadened  into  a  merry  triumph. 
When  Louie  knew  all  about  him  and  his  contrivances 
these  last  four  years,  wouldn't  she  be  mad !  If  she 
were  to  appear  at  this  moment,  he  could  tell  her  that 
she  wore  a  pink  dress  at  the  '  wake '  last  week, — when 
she  was  at  chapel  last, — what  young  men  were  sup- 
posed to  be  courting  her  since  the  summer,  and  a  num- 
ber of  other  interesting  particulars 

'  Mr.  Grieve  !     Tea  ! ' 

His  face  changed.  Reluctantly  shutting  his  book 
and  putting  it  into  its  place,  he  took  his  way  to  the 
staircase. 

As  David  opened  the  swing  door  leading  to  the 
Purcells'  parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop  he  heard 
Miss  Purcell  saying  in  a  mournful  voice,  '  It's  no  good, 
Dora ;  not  a  hajjorth  of  good.  Father  won't  let  me. 
I  might  as  well  have  gone  to  prison  as  come  home.' 

The  assistant  emerged  into  the  bright  gaslight  of 
the  little  room  as  she  spoke.  There  was  another  girl 
sitting  beside  Lucy,  who  got  up  with  a  shy  manner 
and  shook  hands  with  him. 

'  Will  you  take  your  tea,  Mr.  Grieve  ? '  said  Lucy, 
with  a  pettish  sigh,  handing  it  to  him,  and  then  throw- 
ing herself  vehemently  back  in  her  hostess's  chair, 
behind  the  tea-tray.     She  let  her  hands  hang  over  the 


224  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

arms  of  it — the  picture  of  discontent.  The  gaslight 
showed  her  the  possessor  of  bright  brown  eyes,  under 
fine  broAvs  slenderly  but  clearly  marked,  of  a  pink  and 
white  skin  slightly  freckled,  of  a  small  nose  quite 
passable,  but  no  ways  remarkable,  of  a  dainty  little 
chin,  and  a  thin-lipped  mouth,  slightly  raised  at  one 
corner,  and  opening  readily  over  some  irregular  but 
very  white  teeth.  Except  for  the  eyes  and  eyebrows 
the  features  could  claim  nothing  much  in  the  way  of 
beauty.  Yet  at  this  moment  of  seventeen — thanks  to 
her  clear  colours,  her  small  thinness,  and  the  beautiful 
hair  so  richly  piled  about  her  delicate  head — Lucy 
Purcell  was  undeniably  a  pretty  girl,  and  since  her 
arrival  in  Manchester  she  had  been  much  more  bliss- 
fully certain  of  the  fact  than  she  had  ever  succeeded 
in  being  while  she  was  still  under  the  repressive  roof 
of  Miss  Pym's  boarding-school  for  young  ladies,  Pes- 
talozzi  House,  Blackburn. 

David  sat  down,  perceiving  that  something  had  gone 
very  wrong,  but  not  caring  to  inquire  into  it.  His 
whole  interest  in  the  Purcell  household  was,  in  fact, 
dying  out.  He  would  not  be  concerned  with  it  much 
longer. 

So  that,  instead  of  investigating  Miss  Purcell's 
griefs,  he  asked  her  cousin  whether  it  had  not  come  on 
to  rain.  The  girl  opposite  replied  in  a  quiet,  musical 
voice.  She  was  plainly  dressed  in  a  black  hat  and 
jacket ;  but  the  hat  had  a  little  bunch  of  cowslips  to 
light  it  up,  and  the  jacket  was  of  an  ordinary  fashion- 
able cut.  There  was  nothing  particularly  noticeable 
about  the  face  at  first  sight,  excej^t  its  soft  fairness 
and  the  gentle  steadfastness  of  the  eyes.  The  move- 
ments were  timid,  the  speech  often  hesitating.  Yet 
the  impression  which,  on  a  first  meeting,  this  timidity 
was  apt  to  leave  on  a  spectator  was  very  seldom  a 
lasting  one.     David's  idea  of  ]\Iiss  Lomax,  for  instance, 


CHAP.  II  YOUTH  225 

had  radically  changed  during  the  three  months  since 
he  had  made  acquaintance  with  her. 

Rain,  it  appeared,  had  begun,  and  there  must  be 
umbrellas  and  waterproui's  for  the  evening's  excursion. 
As  the  two  others  were  settling  at  what  time  David 
Grieve  and  Lucy  should  call  for  Dora  in  Market  Place, 
Lucy  woke  up  from  a  dream,  and  broke  in  upon  them. 

'  And,  Dora,  j'ou  know,  I  covld  have  worn  that  dress 
with  the  narrow  ribbons  1  showed  you  last  week.  It's 
all  there — upstairs — in  the  cupboard — not  a  crease  in 
it!' 

Dora  could  not  help  laughing,  and  the  laugh  sent  a 
charming  light  into  her  grey,  veiled  eyes.  The  tone 
was  so  inexpressibly  doleful,  the  manner  so  childish. 
David  smiled  too,  and  his  eyes  and  Dora's  met  in  a 
sort  of  friendly  understanding — the  first  time,  per- 
haps, they  had  so  met.  Then  they  both  turned  them- 
selves to  the  task  of  consolation.  The  assistant 
inquired  what  was  the  matter. 

*I  wanted  her  to  go  with  me  to  the  dance  at  the 
Mechanics'  Institute  next  week,'  said  Dora.  'Mrs. 
Alderman  Head  would  have  taken  us  both.  It's  very 
nice  and  respectable.  I  didn't  think  uncle  would 
mind.     I>ut  Lucy  's  sure  he  will.' 

'  Sure !  Of  course,  I'm  sure,'  said  Lucy  sharjDly. 
'  I've  heard  him  talk  about  dancing  in  a  way  to  make 
anybody  sick.  If  he  only  knew  all  the  dancing  we 
had  at  Pestalozzi  House  ! ' 

'Does  he  think  all  dancing  wrong?'  inquired 
David. 

'  Yes — unless  it's  David  dancing  before  the  Ark,  or 
some  such  nonsense,'  replied  Lucy,  with  the  same 
petulant  gloom. 

David  langhed  out.  Then  he  fell  into  a  brown  study, 
one  hand  playing  with  his  tea-cup,  an  irrepressible 
smile  still  curving  about  his  mouth.     Dora,  observing 

VOL.   I  Q 


226  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GEIEVE       book  n 

him  across  the  table,  could  not  but  remember  other 
assistants  of  Uncle  Purcell  whom  she  had  seen  sitting 
in  that  same  place,  and  the  airs  which  Miss  Purcell  in 
her  rare  holidays  had  given  herself  towards  those 
earlier  young  men.  And  now,  this  young  man,  when- 
ever Purcell  himself  was  out  of  the  way,  was  master 
of  the  place.  Anyone  could  see  that,  so  long  as  he 
was  there,  Lucy  was  sensitively  conscious  of  him  in 
all  that  she  said  or  did. 

She  did  not  long  endure  his  half-mocking  silence 
now. 

'You  see,  Dora,'  she  began  again,  with  an  angry 
glance  towards  him,  'father's  worse  than  ever  just 
now.     He's  been  so  aggravated.' 

*  Yes,'  said  Dora  timidly.  She  perfectly  understood 
what  was  meant,  but  she  shrank  from  pursuing  the 
subject.     But  David  looked  up. 

'  I  should  be  very  sorry,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Purcell,  to 
get  in  your  way  at  all,  or  cause  you  any  unpleasant- 
ness, if  that's  what  you  mean.  I  don't  think  you'll  be 
annoyed  with  me  long.' 

He  spoke  Avith  a  boyish  exaggerated  dignity.  It 
became  him,  however,  for  his  fine  aiid  subtle  physique 
somehow  supported  and  endorsed  it. 

Both  the  girls  started.  Lucy  looked  suddenly  as 
miserable  as  she  had  before  looked  angry.  But  in  her 
confused  state  of  feeling  she  renewed  her  attack. 

'  I  don't  understand  anything  about  it,'  she  said, 
with  plaintive  incoherence.  '  Only  I  can't  think  why 
people  should  always  be  making  disturbances.  Dora  ! 
Doesn't  everybody  you  know  think  it  wicked  to  go  to 
the  Hall  of  Science  ?  ' 

She  drew  herself  up  peremptorily.  David  resumed 
the  half  smiling,  half  meditative  attitude  which  had 
provoked  her  before.  Dora  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  a  pure  bright  colour  rising  in  her  cheek. 


riiAi-.  II  YOT'Tir  227 

'  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,'  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  *  I  don't  think  that  would  matter,  Lucy. 
But,  oh,  I  do  wish  father  wouldn't  go — and  ]Mr. 
Grieve  wouldn't  go.' 

Her  voice  and  hand  shook.  Lucy  looked  trium- 
phantly at  David.  Instinctively  she  realised  that, 
especially  of  late,  David  had  come  to  feel  more  re- 
spectfully towards  Dora  than  she  had  ever  succeeded 
in  making  him  feel  towards  herself.  In  the  beginning 
of  their  acquaintance  he  had  often  launched  into  argu- 
ment with  Dora  about  religious  matters,  especially 
about  the  Ritualistic  i)ractices  in  which  she  delighted. 
The  lad,  overflowing  with  his  Voltaire  and  d'Holbach, 
had  not  been  able  to  forbear,  and  had  apparently 
taken  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  shocking  a  bigot — as 
he  had  originally  conceived  Lucy  Purcell's  cousin  to 
be.  The  discussion,  indeed,  had  not  gone  very  far. 
The  girl's  horror  and  his  own  sense  of  his  position 
and  its  difficulties  had  checked  them  in  the  germ. 
Moreover,  as  has  been  said,  his  conception  of  Dora 
had  gradually  changed  on  further  acquaintance.  As 
for  her,  she  had  now  for  a  long  time  avoided  arguing 
with  him,  which  made  her  outburst  on  the  present 
occasion  the  more  noticeable. 

He  looked  up  quickly. 

'Miss  Lomax,  how  do  you  suppose  one  makes  up 
one's  mind — either  about  religion  or  anything  else  ? 
Isn't  it  by  hearing  both  sides  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  no — no  ! '  she  said,  shrinking.  '  Religion  isn't 
like  anything  else.  It's  by — by  growing  up  into  it — 
by  thinking  about  it — and  doing  Avhat  the  Church  tells 
you.     You  come  to  K'now  it's  true.' 

That  the  ^Magi  and  Balaam's  ass  are  true  I  "What 
folly  !  But  somehow  even  his  youthful  ardour  could 
not  say  it,  so  full  of  pure  and  tremulous  pain  was  the 
gaze  fixed  upon  him.     And,  indeed,  he  had  no  time  for 


228  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

any  answer,  for  she  had  just  spoken  when  the  bell  of 
the  outer  door  sounded,  and  a  step  came  rapidly  through 
the  shop. 

'Father!'  said  Lucy,  lifting  the  lid  of  the  teapot 
in  a  great  hurry.  <  Oh,  I  wonder  if  the  tea's  good 
enough.' 

She  was  stirring  it  anxiously  with  a  spoon,  when 
Purcell  entered,  a  tall  heavily  built  man,  with  black 
hair,  a  look  of  command,  and  a  step  which  shook  tlie 
little  back  room  as  he  descended  into  it.  He  touched 
Dora's  hand  with  a  pompous  politeness,  and  then  sub- 
sided into  his  chair  opposite  Lucy,  complaining  about 
the  weather,  and  demanding  tea,  which  his  daughter 
gave  him  Avith  a  timid  haste,  looking  to  see  whether 
he  were  satisfied  as  he  raised  the  first  spoonful  to  his 
lips. 

'  Anything  worth  buying  ?  '  said  David  to  his  em- 
ployer. He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his 
arm  round  the  back  of  another.  Again  Dora  was  re- 
minded by  contrast  of  some  of  the  nervous  lads  she 
had  seen  in  that  room  before,  scarcely  daring  to  eat 
their  tea  under  Purcell's  eye,  flying  to  cut  him  bread, 
or  pass  him  the  sugar. 

'No,'  said  Purcell  curtly. 

'  And  a  great  price,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

Purcell  looked  up.  Apparently  the  ease  of  the 
young  man's  tone  and  attitude  put  the  finishing  stroke 
to  an  inward  process  already  far  advanced. 

'  The  price,  I  conceive,  is  my  business,'  he  said,  in 
his  most  overbearing  manner.  'When  you  have  to 
pay,  it  will  be  yours.' 

David  flushed,  without,  however,  changing  his  posi- 
tion, and  Lucy  made  a  sudden  commotion  among  the 
teacups. 

'Father,'  she  said,  with  a  hurried  agitation  which 
hardly  allowed  her  to  pick  up  the  cup  she  had  thrown 


niAP.  ir  YorTII  229 

over,  'Dora  and  I  want  to  si)eak  to  you.  You  mustn't 
talk  business  at  tea.  Oh,  I  know  you  won't  let  me 
go;  but  I  should  like  it,  and  Dora's  come  to  ask.  I 
shouldn't  want  a  new  dress,  and  it  will  be  most  re- 
spectable, everyone  says ;  and  I  did  learn  dancing  at 
school,  though  you  didn't  know  it.  Miss  Georgina 
said  it  was  stutf  and  nonsense,  and  I  must ' 

'  What  is  she  talking  about  ?  '  said  Turcell  to  Dora, 
with  an  angry  glance  at  Lucy. 

'  I  want  to  take  her  to  a  dance,'  said  Dora  quietly, 
'  if  you  would  let  her  come.  There's  one  at  the  Me- 
chanics' Institute  next  week,  given  by  the  Unicorn 
benefit  society.  'Mrs.  Alderman  Head  said  I  might 
go  with  her,  and  Lucy  too  if  you'll  let  her  come.  I've 
got  a  ticket.' 

'I'm  much  obliged  to  ^Nlrs.  Alderman  Head,'  said 
Purcell  sarcastically.  '  Lucy  knows  very  well  Avhat  I 
think  of  an  unchristian  and  immodest  amusement. 
Other  people  must  decide  according  to  their  con- 
science,    /judge  nobody.' 

At  this  point  David  got  up,  and  disappeared  into 
the  shop. 

'  Oh  yes,  you  do  judge,  uncle,'  cried  Dora,  roused  at 
last,  and  colouring.  'You're  always  judging.  You 
call  everything  unchristian  you  don't  like,  whether  it's 
dancing,  or — or — early  celebration,  or  organ  music,  or 
altar-cloths.  But  you  can't  be  always  right — nobody 
can.' 

'Purcell  surveyed  her  with  a  grim  composure. 

'  If  you  suppose  I  make  any  pretence  to  be  infal- 
lible, you  are  quite  mistaken,'  he  said,  with  slow 
solemnit}' — no  one  in  disclaiming  l^apistry  could  have 
been  more  the  Pope — '  I  leave  that  to  your  priests  at 
St.  Damian's,  Dora.  But  there  is  an  infallible  guide, 
both  for  you  and  for  me,  and  that's  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures.    If    you   can   show  me   any   place   where   the 


230  THE   IIISTOKY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

Bible  approves  of  promiscuous  dancing  between  young 
Christian  men  and  women,  or  of  a  woman  exposing 
her  person  for  admiration's  sake,  or  of  such  vain  and 
idle  talking  as  is  produced  by  these  entertainments,  I 
will  let  Lucy  go.  But  you  can't.  "  Whose  adorning 
let  it  not  be '" 

And  he  quoted  the  Petrine  admonition  with  a  harsh 
triumphant  emphasis  on  every  syllable,  looking  hard 
all  the  time  at  Dora,  who  had  risen,  and  stood  con- 
fronting him  in  a  tremor  of  impatience  and  disagree- 
ment. 

•Father  Russell — '  she  began  quickly,  then  changed 
her  form  of  expression — '  Mr.  Russell  says  you  can't 
settle  things  by  just  quoting  a  text.  The  Bible  has 
to  be  explained,  he  says.' 

Purcell's  eyes  flamed.  He  launched  into  a  sarcastic 
harangue,  delivered  in  a  strong  thick  voice,  on  the 
subject  of  'Sacerdotalism,'  ' priestly  arrogance,'  'lying 
traditions,'  '  making  the  command  of  God  of  no  effect,' 
and  so  forth.  While  his  sermon  rolled  along,  Dora 
stood  nervously  tying  her  bonnet  strings,  or  buttoning 
her  gloves.  Her  heart  was  full  of  a  passionate  scorn. 
Beside  the  bookseller's  muscular  figure  and  pugna- 
cious head  she  saw  with  her  mind's  eye  the  spare 
forms  and  careworn  faces  of  the  young  priests  at  St. 
Damian's.  Outraged  by  this  loud-voiced  assurance, 
she  called  to  mind  the  gentleness,  the  suavity,  the 
delicate  consideration  for  women  which  obtained 
among  her  friends. 

'There's  not  a  pin  to  choose,'  Purcell  wound  up, 
brutally,  'between  you  and  that  young  infidel  in 
there,'  and  he  jerked  his  thumb  towards  the  shop. 
'  It  all  comes  of  pride.  He's  bursting  with  his  own 
wisdom, — you  will  have  the  "Church"  and  won't  have 
the  Bible.  What's  the  Church !— a  pack  of  sinners, 
and  a  million  sinners  are  no  better  than  one.' 


CHAP,  ir  YOUTH  231 

'Good-bj^e,  Lucy,'  said  Dora,  stooping  to  kiss  lier 
cousin,  and  not  trusting  herself  to  speak.  'Call  for 
me  at  the  (piarter.' 

Lucy  hardly  noticed  her  kiss,  she  sat  with  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  holding  her  little  chin  disconso- 
lately, something  very  like  tears  in  her  eyes.  In  the 
first  place,  she  was  reflecting  dolefully  that  it  was  all 
true — she  was  never  to  have  any  anuisenient  like 
other  girls — never  to  have  any  good  of  her  life ;  she 
might  as  well  be  a  nun  at  once.  In  the  second,  she 
was  certain  her  father  meant  to  send  young  Grieve 
away,  and  the  pi-ospect  drew  a  still  darker  pall  over  a 
prospect  dark  enough  in  all  conscience  before. 

Purcell  opened  the  door  for  Dora  more  punctili- 
ously than  usual,  and  came  back  to  the  hearthrug  still 
inflated  as  it  were  with  his  own  eloquence.  INIean- 
whilc  Lucy  was  washing  up  the  tea  things.  The  lit- 
tle servant  had  brought  her  a  bowl  of  water  and  an 
apron,  and  Lucy  was  going  gingerly  through  an  oper- 
ation she  detested.  Why  shouldn't  ]\[ary  Ann  do  it  ? 
What  was  the  good  of  going  to  school  and  coming 
back  with  Claribel's  songs  and  Blumenthal's  Deux 
Anges  lying  on  the  top  of  your  box, — with  a  social 
education,  moreover,  so  advanced  that  the  dancing- 
mistress  had  invariably  made  you  waltz  alone  round 
the  room  for  the  edification  and  instruction  of  the 
assembled  company, — if  all  you  had  to  do  at  home  was 
to  dust  and  wash  up,  and  die  with  envy  of  girls  with 
reprobate  fathers  ?  As  she  pondered  the  question, 
Lucy  began  to  handle  the  cups  with  a  more  and  more 
unfriendly  energy. 

'You'll  break  some  of  that  china,  Lucy  ! '  said  Pur- 
cell, at  last  disturbed  in  his  thoughts.  '  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  I '  said  Luc}',  taking,  however,  a  saucer 
from  the  line  as  she  spoke  so  viciously  that  the  rest 


232  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

of  them  slipped  with  a  clatter  and  only  just  escaped 
destruction. 

'  JNIind  what  you're  about,'  cried  Purcell  angrily, 
fearing  for  the  household  stuff  that  had  been  in  the 
establishment  so  much  longer  and  was  so  much  more 
at  home  there  than  Lucy. 

'  I  know  what  it  is,'  he  said,  looking  at  her  severely, 
while  his  great  black  presence  seemed  to  till  the  little 
room.  '  You've  lost  your  temper  because  I  refused  to 
let  you  go  to  the  dance.' 

Lucy  was  silent  for  a  moment,  trying  to  contain 
herself;  then  she  broke  out  like  a  child,  throwing 
down  her  apron,  and  feeling  for  her  handkerchief. 

'  It's  too  bad — it's  too  bad — I'd  rather  be  Mary  Ann 
— she''s  got  friends,  and  evenings  out — and — and  par- 
ties sometimes ;  and  I  see  nobody,  and  go  nowhere. 
What  did  you  have  me  home  for  at  all  ?  ' 

And  she  sat  down  and  dried  her  eyes  piteously.  She 
was  in  real  distress,  but  she  liked  a  scene,  and  Purcell 
knew  her  peculiarities.  He  surveyed  her  with  a  sort 
of  sombre  indulgence. 

'You're  a  vain  child  of  this  world,  Lucy.  If  I 
didn't  keep  a  look-out  on  you,  you'd  soon  go  rejoicing 
down  the  broad  way.  What  do  you  mean  about 
amusements  ?  There's  the  missionary  tea  to-morrow 
night,  and  the  magic-lantern  at  the  schools  on  Satur- 
day.' 

Lucy  gave  a  little  hysterical  laugh. 

'Well,'  said  Purcell  loudly,  there'll  be  plenty  of 
young  people  there.  What  have  you  got  to  say  against 
them  ? ' 

'A  set  ot frights  and  gcuvks,'  said  Lucy,  sitting  bolt 
upright  in  a  state  of  flat  mutiny,  and  crushing  her 
handkerchief  on  her  knee  between  a  pair  of  trembling 
hands.  'The  way  they  do  their  hair,  and  the  way 
they  tie  their  ties,  and  the  way  they  put  a  chair  for  you 


ciiAi-.  II  YOI'TII  233 

— it's  enough  to  make  one  faint.  At  the  Christmas 
treat  there  was  one  young  man  asked  me  to  trim  his 
shirt-euffs  for  liiin  with  scissors  he  took  out  of  his 
pocket.  I  tohl  liim  /  wasn't  his  nurse,  and  people 
who  weren't  dressed  ought  to  stay  at  home.  You 
shouhl  liave  seen  how  he  and  his  sister  ghired  at  me 
afterwards.  I  don't  care !  Xone  of  the  chai)el  people 
like  me — I  know  they  don't,  and  I  don't  Avant  them 
to,  and  I  wouldn't  marry  one  of  them.' 

The  gesture  of  Lucy's  curly  head  was  superb. 

*Jt  seems  to  me,'  said  Purcell  sarcastically,  'that 
what  you  mostly  learnt  at  Blackburn  was  envy,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness.  As  to  marrying,  child,  the 
less  you  tliink  of  it  for  the  present  the  better,  till  you 
get  more  sense.' 

r>ut  the  eyes  which  studied  her  were  not  unkindly. 
Purcell  liked  this  slim  red  and  white  creature  who 
belonged  to  him,  whose  education  had  cost  him  hard 
money  which  it  gave  liiiu  pleasure  to  reckon  up,  and 
who  promised  now  to  provide  him  with  a  fresh  field 
for  the  management  and  the  coarse  moral  experiment 
which  he  loved.  She  Avould  be  restive  at  first,  but  he 
would  soon  break  her  in.  The  idea  that  under  her 
folly  and  eliildishness  she  might  possibly  inherit  some 
of  his  own  tenacity  never  occurred  to  him. 

'I  can't  imagine,'  said  Lucy  inconsequently,  with 
eyes  once  more  swimming,  'why  you  can't  let  me  do 
what  Dora  does  !  She's  much  better  than  I  am.  She's 
a  saint,  she  is.  She's  always  going  to  church ;  she's 
always  doing  things  for  poor  people  ;  she  never  thinks 

about  herself,  or  whether  she's  pretty,  oi* ^Yhy 

shouldn't  I  dance  if  she  does  ?  ' 

Purcell  laughed. 

*  Aye  ! '  he  said  grimly,  '  that's  the  Papistical  way 
all  over.  So  many  services,  so  much  fasting,  so  much 
money,  so  much  knocking  under  to  your  priest,  so  much 


204  THE   IIISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

"  cliiirch  vrovh  " — and  who  cares  a  brass  farthing  what 
you  do  with  the  rest  of  your  time  ?  Do  as  I  tell  you, 
and  dance  away  !  But  I  tell  you,  Christianity  wants  a 
new  heart !' 

And  the  bookseller  looked  at  his  daughter  with  a 
frowning  severity.  Conversation  of  this  kind  was  his 
recreation,  his  accomplishment,  so  to  speak.  He  had 
been  conducting  a  ditticult  negotiation  all  day  of  the 
diamond-cut-diamond  order,  and  was  tired  out  and 
disgusted  by  the  amount  of  knowledge  of  books  which 
even  a  gentleman  may  possess.  But  here  was  compen- 
sation. A  Avarm  hearthrug,  an  unwilling  listener,  and 
this  sense  of  an  incomparable  soundness  of  view, — he 
wanted  nothing  more  to  revive  him,  unless,  indeed,  it 
were  a  larger  audience. 

As  for  Lucy,  as  she  looked  up  at  her  father,  even 
her  childish  intelligence  rose  to  a  sense  of  absurdity. 
As  if  Dora  hadn't  a  new  heart ;  as  if  Dora  thought  it 
was  enough  to  go  to  church  and  give  sixpences  in  the 
offertory  ! 

But  her  father  overawed  her.  She  had  been  left 
motherless  at  ten  years  old,  and  brought  up  since  away 
from  home,  except  for  holidays.  At  the  bottom  of 
her,  she  was  quite  conscious  that  she  knew  nothing  at 
all  about  this  big  contemptuous  person,  Avho  ordered 
her  about  and  preached  to  her,  and  never  let  himself 
be  kissed  and  played  with  and  coaxed  as  other  girls' 
fathers  did. 

So  she  went  on  with  her  washing  up  in  a  crushed 
silence,  very  sorry  for  herself  in  a  vague  passionate 
way,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drooping.  Purcell  too 
fell  into  a  reverie,  the  lower  jaAV  pushed  forward,  one 
hand  playing  with  the  watch-chain  which  adorned  his 
black  suit. 

'Did  you  give  Grieve  that  message?'  he  asked  at 
last. 


CIIAI-.  II  Yoi'Tir  235 

Lucy,  still  sulky,  nodded  in  reply. 

'"What  time  did  lio  come  in  from  dinner?' 

'  On  tlio  stroke  of  the  half-hour,'  said  Lucy  quickly. 

'I  think  lie  keeps  time  bettor  than  anybody  j-ou  ever 

had,  father.' 

*  Insolent  young  whelp ! '  said  Purcell  in  a  slow, 
deliberate  voice.  *  He  was  at  that  place  again  yester- 
day.' 

'  Yes,  I  know  he  was,'  said  Lucy,  with  evident  agita- 
tion.    '  I  told  him  he  ought  to  have  been  ashamed.' 

*  Oh,  you  talked  to  him,  did  you  ?  What  business 
had  you  to  do  that,  I  wonder  ?  Well,  what  did  he 
say  ? ' 

'He  said — well,  I  don't  know  what  he  said.  He 
don't  seem  to  think  it  matters  to  anybody  where  he 
goes  on  Sunday  ! ' 

'  Oh,  indeed — don't  he  ?  I'll  show  him  some  cause 
to  doubt  the  truth  of  that  proposition,'  said  Purcell 
ponderously;  'or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.' 

Lucy  looked  unhappy,  and  said  nothing  for  a  minute 
or  two.  Then  she  began  insistently,  'Well,  does  it 
matter  to  you  ?  ' 

This  deplorable  question — viewed  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  Baptist  elder — passed  unnoticed,  for  with 
the  last  words  the  shop-bell  rang,  and  Purcell  went  off, 
transformed  on  the  instant  into  the  sharp,  attentive 
tradesman. 

•  Lucy  sat  wiping  her  cups  mechanically  for  a  little 
while.  Then,  when  they  were  all  done,  and  Mary  Ann 
had  been  loftil}'  commanded  to  put  them  away,  she 
slipped  upstairs  to  her  own  room,  a  little  attic  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  Here  she  went  to  a  deal  press,  which 
had  been  her  mother's,  opened  it,  and  took  out  a  dress 
which  hung  in  a  compartment  by  itself,  enveloped  in 
a  holland  wrapper,  lest  Manchester  smuts  should  harm 
it.     She  undid  the  wrapper,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 


236  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

It  was  an  embroidered  white  muslin,  adorned  with  lace 
and  full  knots  of  narrow  pink  ribbon. 

'  AVliat  a  trouble  I  had  to  get  the  ribbon  just  that 
width,'  she  thought  to  herself  ruefully,  'and  everybody 
said  it  was  so  uncommon.  I  might  as  well  give  it 
Dora.  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  wear  it.  I  don't 
know  what'll  become  of  me.     I  don't  get  any  chances.' 

And  shaking  her  head  mournfully  from  side  to  side, 
she  sat  on  beside  the  dress,  in  the  light  of  her  solitary 
candle,  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knee,  the  picture 
of  girlish  despair,  so  far  as  anything  so  daintily 
gowned,  and  shoed,  and  curled,  could  achieve  it.  She 
was  thinking  drearily  of  some  people  who  were  coming 
to  supper,  one  of  her  father's  brother  elders  at  the 
chapel,  Mr.  Baruch  Barton,  and  his  daughter.  Mr. 
Barton  had  a  speciality  for  the  prophet  Zephaniah, 
and  had  been  several  times  shocked  because  Lucy 
could  not  help  him  out  with  his  quotations  from  that 
source.  His  daughter,  a  little  pinched  asthmatic  crea- 
ture, in  a  dress  whereof  every  gore  and  seam  was  an 
affront  to  the  art  of  dressmaking,  was  certainly  thirty, 
probably  more.  And  between  thirty  and  the  Psalm- 
ist's limit  of  existence,  there  is  the  very  smallest 
appreciable  difference,  in  the  opinion  of  seventeen. 
What  coidd  she  have  to  say  to  Emmy  Barton  ?  Lucy 
asked  herself.  She  began  yawning  from  sheer  dul- 
ness,  as  she  thought  of  her.  If  it  were  only  time  to 
go  to  bed ! 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  sound  of  raised  voices  in  the 
upper  shop  on  the  floor  below.  What  could  it  be  ? 
She  started  up.  '  Mr.  Grieve  and  father  quarrelling ! ' 
She  knew  it  must  come  to  that  I 

She  crept  down  the  stairs  with  every  precaution 
possible  till  she  came  to  the  door  behind  which  the 
loud  talk  which  had  startled  her  was  going  on.  Here 
she  listened  with  all  her  ears,  but  at  first  to  very  little 


CHAl'.    i: 


YOUTH  237 


purpose.  David  was  speaking,  but  so  rapidly,  and  ap- 
parently so  near  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  that  she 
could  hear  nothing.  Then  her  father  broke  in,  and  by 
dint  of  straining  very  hard,  she  cauglit  most  of  what 
he  said  before  the  whole  colloquy  came  abruptly  to  an 
end.  She  heard  Turcell's  heavy  tread  descending  the 
little  iron  spiral  staircase  leading  from  the  lower  shop 
to  the  upper.  She  heard  David  moving  about,  as 
thougli  he  were  gathering  up  books  and  ])apers,  and 
then,  with  a  loud  childish  sob  which  burst  from  her 
unawares,  she  ran  upstairs  again  to  her  own  room. 

'  Oh,  he's  going,  he's  going ! '  she  cried  under  her 
breath,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass  winking  to  keep 
the  tears  back,  and  biting  her  handkerchief  hard 
between  her  little  white  teeth.  '  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  '.' 
what  shall  I  do  ?  It'll  be  always  the  same  ;  just  when 
anyone  mirjlit  like  me,  it  all  stops.  And  he  won't  care 
one  little,  little  bit.  He'll  never  think  of  me  again. 
Oh,  I  do  think  somebody  might  care  about  me — might 
be  sorry  for  me  ! ' 

And  she  locked  her  hands  tight  before  her,  and 
stared  at  the  glass,  while  the  tears  forced  their  way. 
But  all  the  time  she  was  noticing  how  prettily  she 
stood,  how  slim  she  was.  And  though  she  smarted, 
she  would  not  for  the  world  have  been  without  her 
smart,  her  excitement,  her  foolish  secret,  which,  for 
sheer  lack  of  something  to  do  and  think  about,  had 
'  suddenly  grown  to  such  magnitude  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  hard  to  cherish  a  hopeless  passion  for  a  handsome 
youth,  without  a  halfpenny,  who  despised  you,  but  it 
was  infinitely  better  than  to  have  nothing  in  your  mind 
but  Emmy  Barton  and  the  prophet  Zephaniah.  Nay, 
as  she  washed  her  hands  and  smoothed  her  dress  and 
hair  with  trembling  fingers,  she  became  quite  friendly 
with  her  pain — in  a  sense,  even  proud  of  it,  and  jealous 
for  it.     It  was  a  sign  of  mature  life— of  something 


238  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GKIEVE       book  ii 

more  than  mere  school-girlishness.  Like  the  lover  in 
the  Elizabethan  sonnet,  '  She  had  been  vexed,  if  vexed 
she  had  not  been  ! ' 


CHAPTER   III 

'Come  in,  David,'  said  Mr.  Ancrum,  opening  the  door 
of  his  little  sitting-room  in  Mortimer  Street.  'You're 
rather  late,  but  I  don't  wonder.  Such  a  wind !  I 
could  hardly  stand  against  it  myself.  But,  then,  I'm 
an  atomy.  What,  no  top-coat  in  such  weather !  What 
do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?  You're  wet  through. 
There,  dry  yourself.' 

David,  with  a  grin  at  Mr.  Ancrum's  unnecessary 
concern  for  him,  deposited  himself  in  the  carpet  chair 
which  formed  the  minister's  only  lounge,  and  held  out 
his  legs  and  arms  to  the  blaze.  He  was  wet  indeed, 
and  bespattered  with  the  blackest  mud  in  the  three 
kingdoms.  But  the  battle  with  wind  and  rain  had  so 
brought  into  play  all  the  physical  force  of  him,  had 
so  brightened  eye  and  cheek,  and  tossed  the  black  hair 
into  such  a  fine  confusion,  that,  as  he  sat  there  bend- 
ing over  the  glow  of  the  fire,  the  crippled  man  oppo- 
site, sickly  with  long  confinement  and  over-thinking, 
could  not  take  his  eyes  from  him.  The  storm  with 
all  its  freshness,  youth  with  all  its  reckless  joy  in 
itself,  seemed  to  have  come  in  with  the  lad  and  trans- 
formed the  little  dingy  room. 

'What  do  you  wear  trash  like  that  for  in  a  tem- 
perature like  this  ? '  said  the  minister,  touching  his 
guest's  thin  and  much-worn  coat.  '  Don't  you  know, 
David,  that  your  health  is  money  ?  Suppose  you  get 
lung  trouble,  who's  to  look  after  you  ?  ' 

'  It  don't  do  me  no  harm,  sir.  I  can't  get  into  my  last 
year's  coat,  and  I  couldn't  afford  a  new  one  this  winter.' 


CHAP.  Ill  YOUTH  239 

'What  wages  do  you  earn?'  asked  Ancrum.  His 
manner  was  a  curious  mixture  of  melancholy  gentle- 
ness and  of  that  terse  sharpness  in  practical  things 
which  the  south  country  resents  and  the  north  country 
takes  for  granted. 

'Eighteen  shillings  a  week,  since  last  November, 
sir.' 

*  That  ought  to  be  enough  for  a  top-coat,  you  rascal, 
with  only  yourself  to  feed,'  said  Mr.  Ancrum,  stretch- 
ing himself  in  his  hard  armchair,  so  as  to  let  his  lame 
leg  with  its  heavy  boot  rest  comfortably  on  the  fender. 
David  had  noticed  at  first  sight  of  him  that  his  old 
playfellow  had  grown  to  look  much  older  than  in  the 
Clough  End  days.  His  hair  was  nearly  white,  and 
lay  in  a  large  smooth  wave  across  the  broad  brow. 
And  in  that  brow  there  were  deep  furrows,  and  many 
a  new  and  premature  line  in  the  hollow  cheeks.  Some- 
thing withering  and  blighting  seemed  to  have  passed 
over  the  whole  man  since  those  Sunday  school  lessons 
in  the  Christian  Brethren's  upper  room,  which  David 
still  remembered  so  well.  But  the  eyes  with  their 
irresistible  intensity  and  force  were  the  same.  In 
them  the  minister's  youth — he  was  not  yet  thirty-five 
— still  spoke,  as  from  a  last  stronghold  in  a  failing 
realm.  They  had  a  strange  look  too,  the  look  as  of  a 
secret  life,  not  for  the  passer-by. 

David  smiled  at  Ancrum's  last  remark,  and  for  a 
moment  or  two  looked  into  the  fire  without  sj)eaking. 

'  Well,  if  I'd  bought  clothes  or  anything  else  this 
winter,  I  should  be  in  a  precious  worse  hole  than  I  am,' 
hs  said  reflectively. 

'  Hole  ?     What's  wrong,  Davy  ?  ' 

'  My  master  gave  me  the  sack  IMonday.' 

'Humph!'  said  Ancrum,  surveying  him.  'Well, 
you  don't  look  much  cast  down  about  it,  I  must  say.' 

'Well,  you  see,  I'd  laid  my  plans,'  said  the  young 


240  THE   HISrOKY   OF  DAVID   GKIEVP:       book  ii 

man,  an  irrepressible  gaiety  and  audacity  in  every 
feature.  '  It  isn't  as  though  I  were  taken  by  sur- 
prise.' 

'  Plans  for  a  new  place,  I  sui)pose  ?  ' 

'Xo;  I  have  done  with  that.  I  am  going  to  set 
up  for  myself.  I  know  the  trade,  and  I've  got  some 
money.' 

'  How  old  are  you,  Davy  ?  ' 

'Just  upon  twenty,'  said  the  lad,  quietly. 

The  minister  pursed  up  his  lips  and  whistled  a 
little. 

'AVell,  that's  bold,'  he  said.  'Somehow  I  like  it, 
though  by  all  the  laws  of  prudence  I  ought  to  jump 
down  your  throat  for  announcing  such  a  thing.  But 
how  did  you  get  your  money  ?  and  what  have  you 
been  doing  these  four  years  ?  Come,  I'm  an  old  friend, 
— though  I  dare  say  you  don't  think  me  much  of  a 
fellow.  Out  with  it !  Pay  me  anyway  for  all  those 
ships  I  made  you  long  ago.' 

And  he  held  out  his  blanched  hand,  little  more 
now  than  skin  and  bone.  David  put  his  own  into  it 
awkwardly  enough.  At  this  period  of  his  life  he  was 
not  demonstrative. 

The  story  he  had  to  tell  was,  to  Ancrum's  thinking, 
a  remarkable  one.  He  had  come  into  Manchester  on 
an  October  evening  with  five  shillings  and  threepence 
in  his  pocket.  From  a  point  on  the  south-western 
border  of  the  city  he  took  a  'bus  for  Deansgate  and 
Victoria  Street.  As  he  Avas  sitting  on  tlie  top  feeding 
his  eyes  on  the  lights  and  the  crowd  of  the  streets,  but 
wholly  ignorant  where  to  go  and  what  first  step  to  take, 
he  fell  into  talk  with  a  decent  working-man  and  his 
wife  sitting  beside  him.  The  result  of  the  talk  was 
that  they  offered  him  shelter  at  fourpence  a  night. 
He  dismounted  with  them  at  Blackfriars  Bridge,  and 
they  made  their  way  across  the  river  to  a  street  in 


CUAI'.     Ill 


YOUTH  211 


Salford,  where  he  lodged  with  them  for  a  week.  Dur- 
ing that  week  he  lived  on  oatmeal  and  an  occasional 
baked  potato,  paying  his  hostess  eighteen  pence  addi- 
tional for  the  \ise  of  her  fire,  and  the  riglit  to  sit  in 
her  kitclien  when  he  was  not  tramping  about  in  search 
of  work.  Jiy  the  end  of  the  week  he  had  found  a 
post  as  errand-boy  at  a  large  cheap  bookseller's  and 
stationer's  in  Deausgate,  at  eight  shillings  a  week,  his 
good  looks,  manner,  and  education  evidently  helping 
him  largely,  as  ^Ir.  Ancrum  could  perceive  through 
the  boy's  very  matter-of-fact  account  of  himself.  He 
then  made  an  agreement  fur  bed,  use  of  fire,  and 
kitchen,  with  his  new  friends  at  four  shillings  a  week, 
and  by  the  end  of  six  months  he  was  receiving  a  wage 
of  fourteen  shillings  as  salesman  and  had  saved  close 
on  five  pounds. 

'  Well,  now,  come,  how  did  you  manage  that,  Davy  ?  ' 
said  Mr.  Ancrum,  interrupting.  'Don't  run  on  in  that 
fashion.  Details  are  the  only  interesting  things  in 
life,  and  details  I'll  have.  You  must  have  found  it  a 
precious  tight  fit  to  save  that  five  pounds.' 

Whereupon  David,  his  eye  kindling,  ran  out  Benja- 
min Franklin  and  the  '  A'egetarian  News,'  his  constant 
friends  from  the  first  day  of  his  acqviaintance  Avith  the 
famous  autobiograpliy  till  now,  in  spite  of  such  occa- 
sional lapses  into  carnal  feeding  as  he  liad  confessed 
to  Daddy.  In  a  few  minutes  Ancrum  found  himself 
buried  in  'details'  as  to  'flesh-forming'  and  'bone- 
i'orming'  foods,  as  to  nitrogen  and  albumen,  as  to  the 
saving  (qualities  of  fruit,  and  Heaven  knows  what 
besides.  Long  before  the  enthusiast  had  spent  his 
breath  or  his  details,  the  minister  cried  '  Enough ! ' 

'  Young  materialist,'  he  said  growling,  '  what  do  you 
mean  at  your  age  by  thinking  so  much  about  your 
body  ?  ' 

'It  Avasn't  my  body,,  sir,'   said  David,   simply,   'it 

VOL.  1  R 


242  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

was  just  business.  If  I  had  got  ill,  I  couldn't  have 
worked ;  if  I  had  lived  like  other  chaps,  I  couldn't 
liave  saved.  So  I  had  to  know  something  about  it, 
and  it  wasn't  bad  fun.  After  a  bit  I  got  the  people  I 
lodged  with  to  eat  a  lot  of  the  things  I  eat — and  that 
was  cheaper  for  me  of  course.  The  odd  thing  about 
vegetarianism  is  that  you  come  not  to  care  a  rap  what 
you  eat.  Your  taste  goes  somehow.  So  long  as 
you're  nourished  and  can  do  your  work,  that's  all  you 
Avant.' 

The  minister  sat  studying  his  visitor  a  minute  or 
two  in  silence,  though  the  eyes  under  the  care-worn 
brow  were  bright  and  restless.  Any  defiance  of  the 
miserable  body  was  in  itself  delightful  to  a  man  who 
had  all  but  slain  himself  many  times  over  in  the 
soul's  service.  He,  too,  had  been  living  on  a  crust  for 
months,  denying  himself  first  this,  then  that  ingre- 
dient of  what  should  have  been  an  invalid's  diet.  But 
it  had  been  for  cause — for  the  poor — for  self-mortifi- 
cation. There  was  something  just  a  little  jarring  to 
the  ascetic  in  this  contact  with  a  self-denial  of  the 
purely  rationalistic  type,  so  easy — so  cheerful — put 
forward  without  the  smallest  suspicion  of  merit,  as  a 
mere  business  measure. 

David  resumed  his  story.  By  the  end  of  another 
six  months  it  appeared  that  he  had  groAvn  tired  of  his 
original  shop,  with  its  vast  masses  of  school  stationery 
and  cheap  new  books  As  might  have  been  expected 
from  his  childish  antecedents,  he  had  been  soon  laid 
hold  of  by  the  old  bookstalls,  had  read  at  them  on  his 
way  from  work,  had  spent  on  them  all  that  he  could 
persuade  himself  to  spare  from  his  hoard,  and  in  a 
year  from  the  time  he  entered  Manchester,  thanks  to 
wits,  reading,  and  chance  friendships,  w\as  already  a 
budding  bibliophile.  Slates  and  primers  became  sud- 
denly odious  to  a  person  aware  of  the  existence  of 


CHAi-.  Ill  YOUTH  243 

Aldiucs  ami  Elzevirs,  and  bitten  witli  tlie  passion, 
then  just  let  loose  on  the  book-buying  world,  for  lirst 
editions  of  the  famous  books  of  the  century.  When- 
ever that  sum  in  the  savings  bank  should  have 
readied  a  certain  height,  he  would  become  a  second- 
hand bookseller  with  a  stall.  Till  then  he  must  save 
more  and  learn  his  trade.  So  at  the  end  of  his  first 
year  he  left  his  employers,  and  by  the  help  of  excel- 
lent recommendations  from  them  got  the  post  of  assist- 
ant in  Purcell's  shop  in  Half  Street,  at  a  rise  of  two 
shillings,  afterwards  converted  into  four  shillings  a 
week. 

'  And  I've  been  there  three  years — very  near,'  said 
David,  straightening  himself  with  a  little  nervous 
gesture  peculiar  to  him.  '  If  you'd  been  anywhere 
about,  sir,  you'd  have  wondered  how  I  could  have 
stayed  so  long.  But  I  wanted  to  learn  the  trade  and 
I've  learnt  it — no  thanks  to  old  Purcell.' 

'What  was  wrong  with  him  ?' 

'  Mostly  brains  ! '  said  the  lad,  with  a  scornful  but 
not  unattractive  conceit.  'He  was  a  hard  master  to 
live  with — that  don't  matter.  But  he  is  a  fool !  I 
don't  mean  to  say  he  don't  know  a  lot  about  some 
things — but  he  thinks  he  knows  everything — and  he 
don't.  And  he'll  not  let  anyone  tell  him — not  he ! 
Once,  if  you'll  believe  it,  he  got  the  Aldine  Virgil  of 
1501,  for  twenty-five  shillings — came  from  a  gentle- 
man out  Eccles  way — a  fellow  selling  his  father's 
library  and  didn't  know  bad  from  good, — real  fine  tall 
copy, — binding  poor, — but  a  stuniier  take  it  altogether 
— worth  twenty  pounds  to  Quaritch  or  Ellis,  any  day. 
Well,  all  I  could  do,  he  let  a  man  have  it  for  five  shil- 
lings profit  next  day,  just  to  spite  me,  I  believe,  be- 
cause I  told  him  it  was  a  good  thing.  Then  he  got 
sick  about  that,  I  believe,  though  he  never  let  out,  and 
the  next  time  he  found  anything  that  looked  good, — 


244  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

giminy ! — but  he  put  it  on.  Kow  you  know,  sir  ' — 
Mr.  Ancrum  smiled  at  the  confidential  eagerness  of 
the  expert — 'you  know,  sir,  it's  not  many  of  those 
Venice  or  Florence  Dantes  that  are  worth  anything. 
If  you  get  the  first  edition  of  Landino's  '•  Commen- 
tary," or  the  other  man's,  Imola's,  isn't  it — ' 

The  minister  lifted  his  eyebrows — the  Italian  came 
out  pat,  and,  so  far  as  he  knew,  right — 

'  Well,  of  course,  theifre  worth  money — always  fetch 
their  price.  But  the  later  editions  are  no  good  at  all 
— nobody  but  a  gentleman-collector,  very  green,  you 
know,  sir ' — the  twinkle  in  the  boy's  eye  showed  how 
much  his  subject  was  setting  him  at  his  ease — '  would 
be  bothered  with  them.  Well,  if  he  didn't  get  hold  of 
an  edition  of  1540  or  so — worth  about  eight  shillings, 
and  dear  at  that — and  send  it  up  to  one  of  the  London 
men  as  a  good  thing.  He  makes  me  pack  it  and  send 
it  and  register  it — you  might  have  thought  it  was  the 
Mazarin  Bible,  bar  size.  And  then,  of  course,  next 
day,  down  comes  the  book  again  flying,  double  quick. 
I  kept  out  of  his  way,  post-time  !  But  I'd  have  given 
something  to  see  the  letter  he  got.' 

And  David,  rising,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  stood  before  the  fire  chuckling  with  irrepressible 
amusement. 

*  Well,  then  you  know  there's  the  first  editions  of 
Rousseau — not  a  bit  rare,  as  rare  goes — lucky  if  you 
get  thirty  shillings  for  the  "  Contrat  Social,"  or  the 
"Nouvelle  Heloi'se,"  even  good  copies — ' 

Again  the  host's  eyebrows  lifted.  The  French 
names  ran  remarkably ;  there  was  not  the  least  bog- 
gling over  them.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  David 
rattled  on,  describing,  with  a  gusto  which  never  failed, 
one  of  Purcell's  book-selling  enormities  after  another. 
It  was  evident  that  he  despised  his  master  with  a  pas- 
sionate contempt.     It  was  evident  also  that  Purcell 


CHAP.     Ill 


YOUTH  245 


had  shown  a  mean  and  unreasoning  jealousy  of  his 
assistant.  The  English  tradesman  inherits  a  domi- 
neering tradition  towards  his  subordinates,  and  in 
Puroell's  case,  as  we  know,  the  instincts  of  an  egotis- 
tical piety  had  reinforced  those  of  the  employer.  Yet 
Mr.  Ancrum  felt  some  sympathy  with  Purcell. 

'  Well,  Davy,'  he  said  at  last,  '  so  you  were  too  'cute 
for  your  man,  that's  plain.  But  I  don't  suppose  he 
put  it  on  that  ground  wlieu  he  gave  you  the  sack  ? ' 

And  he  looked  up,  with  a  little  dry  smile. 

'  No  ! '  cried  David,  abruptly.  '  No  !  not  he.  If 
you  go  and  ask  him  he'll  tell  you  he  sent  me  off  be- 
cause I  would  go  to  the  Secularist  meetings  at  the 
Hall  of  Science,  and  air  myself  as  an  atheist ;  that's 
his  way  of  putting  it.  And  it  was  doing  him  harm 
with  his  religious  customers  !  As  if  I  was  going  to 
let  him  dictate  where  I  went  on  Sundays ! ' 

'Of  course  not,'  said  Ancrum,  with  a  twist  of  his 
oddly  shaped  mouth.  '  Even  the  very  youngest  of  us 
might  sometimes  be  the  better  for  advice ;  but,  hang 
it,  let's  be  free — free  to  "  make  fools  of  ourselves,"  as 
a  wise  man  hath  it.  Well,  Davy,  no  offence,'  for  his 
guest  had  flushed  suddenly.  *  So  you  go  to  the  Hall 
of  Science  ?  Did  you  hear  Holyoake  and  Bradlaugh 
there  the  other  night  ?    You  like  that  kind  of  thing? ' 

'  I  like  to  hear  it,'  said  the  lad,  stoutly,  meeting  his 
old  teacher's  look,  half  nervously,  half  defiantly,  '  It's 
a  great  deal  more  lively  than  what  you  hear  at  most 
churches,  sir.  And  why  shouldn't  one  hear  every- 
thing ? ' 

This  was  not  precisely  the  tone  which  the  same  cul- 
prit had  adopted  towards  Dora  Lomax.  The  Voltairean 
suddenly  felt  himself  to  be  making  excuses — shabby 
excuses — in  the  presence  of  somebody  connected,  how- 
ever distantly,  with  Vinfdme.  He  drew  himself  up 
with  an  angry  shake  of  his  whole  powerful  frame. 


246  TTIF.   TTISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

'Oh,  Avliy  not?'  said  Ancrum,  with  a  shrug,  'if 
life's  long  enough' — and  he  absently  lifted  and  let 
fall  a  book  which  lay  on  the  table  beside  him ;  it 
was  Newman's  '  Dream  of  Gerontius ' — '  if  life's  long 
enough,  and — happy  enough!  Well,  so  you've  been 
learning  French,  I  can  hear.     Teaching  yourself  ? ' 

'Xo;  there's  an  old  Frenchman,  old  Barbier — do 
you  know  him,  sir  ?  He  gives  lessons  at  a  shilling  an 
hour.  Very  few  people  go  to  him  now;  they  want 
younger  men.  And  there's  lots  of  them  about.  But 
old  Barbier  knows  more  about  books  than  any  of  them, 
I'll  be  bound.' 

'Has  he  introduced  you  to  French  novels  ?  I  never 
read  any ;  but  they're  bad,  of  course — must  be.  In  all 
those  things  I'm  a  Britisher  and  believe  what  the 
Britishers  say.' 

'  We're  just  at  the  end  of  "  Manon  Lescaut," '  said 
David,  doggedly.  'And  partly  with  him,  partly  by 
myself,  I've  read  a  bit  of  Kousseau — and  a  good  lot  of 
Diderot, — and  Voltaire.' 

David  threw  an  emphasis  into  the  last  name,  which 
was  meant  to  atone  to  himself  for  the  cowardice  of  a 
few  minutes  before.  The  old  boyish  feeling  towards 
Mr.  Ancrum,  which  had  revived  in  him  when  he  en- 
tered the  room,  had  gradually  disappeared  again.  He 
bore  the  minister  no  real  grudge  for  having  forgotten 
him,  but  he  wished  it  to  be  clearly  understood  that 
the  last  fragments  of  the  Christian  Brethren  yoke  had 
dropped  from  his  neck. 

'  Ah !  don't  know  anything  about  them,'  said  An- 
crum, slowly ;  '  but  then,  as  you  know,  I'm  a  very  igno- 
rant person.  Well,  now,  was  it  Voltaire  took  you  to 
the  secularists,  or  the  secularists  to  Voltaire  ? ' 

David  laughed,  but  did  not  give  a  reply  im- 
mediately. 

'  Well,  never  mind,'  said  the  minister.     '  All  Chris- 


CHAP.  Ill  YOT-nr  247 


tians  are  fools,  of  course — that's  understood. — Is  that 
all  you  have  been  learning  these  four  years  ?  ' 

'I  work  at  Latin  every  morning,'  said  David,  very 
red,  and  on  his  dignity.  '  I've  begun  Greek,  and  I  go 
to  the  science  classes,  mathematics  and  chemistry,  at 
tlie  j\[echanics'  Institute.' 

Mr.  Ancrum's  face  softened. 

'  Why,  I'll  be  bound  you  have  to  go  to  work  pretty 
early,  Davy?' 

'  Seven  o'clock,  sir,  I  take  the  shutters  down.  But 
I  get  an  hour  and  a  half  first,  and  three  hours  in  the 
evening.  This  winter  I've  got  through  the  "yEneid," 
and  Horace's  '•'  Epistles  "  and  "  Ars  Poetica."  Do  you 
remember,  sir  ?  ' — and  the  lad's  voice  grew  sharp  once 
more,  tightening  as  it  were  under  the  pressure  of  eager- 
ness and  ambition  from  beneath — '  do  you  remember 
that  Scaliger  read  the  "  Iliad  "  in  twenty  days,  and  was 
a  finished  Greek  scholar  in  two  years  ?  Why  can't 
one  do  that  now?' 

'Why  shouldn't  you?'  said  Mr.  Ancruni,  looking 
up  at  him.     '  Who  helps  you  in  your  Greek  ? ' 

'  Xo  one  ;  1  get  translations.' 

'Well,  now,  look  here,  Davy.  I'm  an  ignorant 
person,  as  I  told  you,  but  I  learnt  some  Latin  and 
Greek  at  INIanchester  oSTew  College.  Come  to  me  in  the 
evenings,  and  I'll  help  you  with  your  Greek,  unless 
you've  got  beyond  me.     Where  are  yoii  ? ' 

The  budding  Scaliger  reported  himself.  He  had 
read  the  'Anabasis,'  some  Herodotus,  three  plays  of 
Euripides,  and  was  now  making  some  desperate  efforts 
on  J^schylus  and  Sophocles.  Any  Plato  ?  David 
made  a  face.  He  had  read  two  or  three  dialogues  in 
English  ;  didn't  want  to  go  on,  didn't  care  about  him. 
Ah  !  Ancrum  supposed  not. 

'Twelve  hours'  shop,'  said  the  minister  reflecting, 
'more  or  less, — two  hours'  work  before  shop, — three 


248  THE   HISTOEY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  ii 

hours  or  so  after  shop  ;  that's  what  you  ma}'  call  driv- 
ing it  hard.  You  couldn't  do  it,  Richard  Ancrum,' 
and  he  shook  his  head  with  a  whimsical  melancholy. 
•  But  you  were  always  a  poor  starveling.  Youth  that 
is  youth  "s  tough.  Don't  tell  me,  sir,'  and  he  looked 
up  sharply,  'that  you  don't  amuse  yourself.  I 
wouldn't  believe  it.  There  never  was  a  man  built 
like  you  yet  that  didn't  amuse  himself.' 

David  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

'  Billiards  ? ' 

'No,  sir.' 

'  Betting  ? ' 

'  No,  sir.     They  cost  money.' 

'  Niggardly  dog  !  Drink  ? — no,  I'll  answer  that  for 
myself.' 

The  minister  dropped  his  catechism,  and  sat  nurs- 
ing his  lame  leg  and  thinking.  Suddenly  he  broke 
out  Avith,  '  How  many  young  women  are  you  in  love 
with,  David  ? ' 

David  showed  his  white  teeth. 

'  I  only  know  two,  sir.  One's  my  master's  daughter 
— she's  rather  a  pretty  girl,  T  think ' 

'That'll  do.  You're  not  in  love  with  her.  Who's 
the  other  ? ' 

'  The  other  's  Mr.  Lomax's  daughter, — Lomax  of  the 
Parlour,  that  queer  restaurant,  sir,  in  Market  Place. 
She — well,  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  her.  She's 
not  good-looking — at  least,  I  don't  think  so,'  he  added 
dubiously.  '  She's  very  High  Church,  and  fasts  all 
Lent.     I  think  she  does  Church  embroidery.' 

'And  doesn't  think  any  the  better  of  you  for  attend- 
ing the  Hall  of  Science  ?  Sensible  girl !  Still,  when 
people  mean  to  fall  in  love,  they  don't  think  twice  of 
that  sort  of  thing.  I  make  a  note  of  Lomax's  daughter. 
Ah !  enter  supper.  David,  if  you  let  any  'ism  stand  be- 
tween yon  and  that  veal  pie,  I  despair  of  your  future.' 


CHAP.  Ill  YOUTH  249 

David,  however,  in  the  course  of  the  meal,  showed 
himself  as  superior  to  narrowness  of  view  in  the 
matter  of  food-stutts  as  in  other  matters.  The  meal 
went  merrily.  Mr.  Ancruin  dropped  his  half-sarcastic 
tone,  and  food,  warmth,  and  talk  loosened  the  lad's 
fibres,  and  made  him  more  and  more  human,  hand- 
some, and  attractive.  Soon  his  old  friend  knew  all 
that  he  wanted  to  know, — the  sum  David  had  saved 
— thirty  pounds  in  the  savings-bank — the  sort  of  stock 
he  meant  to  set  up,  the  shop  he  had  taken — with  a 
stall,  of  course — no  beginner  need  hope  to  prosper 
without  a  stall.  Customers  must  be  delicately  angled 
for  at  a  safe  distance — show  yourself  too  much,  and, 
like  trout,  they  Hashed  away.  See  everything,  force 
nothing.  Let  a  book  be  turned  over  for  nineteen 
days,  the  chances  were  that  on  the  twentieth  you 
would  turn  over  the  price.  As  to  expecting  the  class 
of  cheap  customers  to  commit  themselves  by  walking 
into  a  shop,  it  was  simple  madness.  Of  course,  when 
yon  were  'established,'  that  was  another  matter. 

By  the  help  of  a  certain  wealthy  Unitarian,  one  Mr. 
Doyle,  with  whom  he  had  made  friends  in  Purcell's 
shop,  and  whom  he  had  boldly  asked  for  the  use  of 
his  name  as  a  reference,  the  lad  had  taken — so  it 
appeared — a  small  house  in  Potter  Street,  a  narrow 
but  frequented  street  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Deans- 
gate  and  all  the  great  banks  and  insurance  offices  in 
King  Street.  His  shop  took  up  the  ground  floor. 
The  two  floors  above  were  let,  and  the  tenants  would 
remain.  But  into  the  attics  and  the  parlour  kitchen 
behind  the  shop,  he  meant,  ultimately,  when  he  could 
afford  it,  to  put  himself  and  his  sister.  He  could 
only  get  the  house  on  a  yearly  tenancy,  as  it  and  the 
others  near  it  were  old,  and  would  probably  be  rebuilt 
before  long.  lUit  meanwhile  the  rent  was  all  the 
lower  because  of  the  insecurity  of  tenure. 


250  THE  HISTOEY  OF  DAVlD  GRIEVE      book  ii 

At  the  mention  of  the  boy's  sister,  Ancrum  looked 
up  with  a  start. 

*  Ah,  to  he  sure  !  What  became  of  that  poor  child 
after  you  left  ?  The  Clough  End  friends  vv^ho  wrote 
to  me  of  your  disappearance  had  more  pity  for  her, 
Davy,  than  they  had  for  you.' 

A  sudden  repulsion  and  reserve  darkened  the  black 
eyes  opposite. 

'  There  was  no  helping  it,'  he  said  with  hasty  defiance. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  a  wish  to  explain 
himself  rose  in  David. 

'  I  couldn't  have  stayed,  sir,'  he  said,  with  a  curious 
half-reproachful  accent.  '  I  told  you  about  how  it  was 
before  you  left.  And  there  were  other  things.  I  should 
have  cut  my  own  throat  or  some  one  else's  if  it  had 
gone  on.  But  I  haven't  forgotten  Louie.  You  remem- 
ber Tom  Mullins  at  the  foundry.  He's  written  me 
every  mouth.  I  paid  him  for  it.  I  know  all  about 
Louie,  and  they  don't  know  anything  about  me.  They 
think  I'm  in  America.' 

His  eyes  lit  again  with  the  joy  of  contrivance. 

as  that  kind,  Davy?' 

'Yes,  sir '  and  for  the  first  time  the  minister 

heard  in  the  boy's  voice  the  tone  of  a  man's  judgment. 
'1  couldn't  have  Louie  on  me  just  yet.  I  was  going 
to  ask  you,  sir,  not  to  tell  the  people  at  Clough  End 
you've  seen  me.  It  would  make  it  very  hard.  You 
know  what  Louie  is — and  she's  all  right.  She's  learnt 
a  trade.' 

'  What  trade  ? ' 

'  Silk-weaving — from  Margaret  Dawson.' 

'  Poor  soul — poor  saint !  There'd  be  more  things 
than  her  trade  to  be  learnt  from  Margaret  Dawson  if 
anyone  had  a  mind  to  learn  them.     What  of  'Lias  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  he  died,  sir,  a  week  after  I  left.'  The  lad's 
voice  dropped.     Then  he  added  slowly,  looking  away. 


CHAP,    in 


YOUTH  251 


'Tom  said  he  was  very  quiet — he  didn't  suffer  much — 
not  at  the  end.' 

'  Aye,  the  clouds  lift  at  sunset,'  said  Mr.  Ancrum  in 
an  altered  tone  ;  '  the  air  clears  before  the  night ! ' 

His  head  fell  forward  on  his  breast,  and  he  sat 
drumming  on  the  table.  They  hud  finished  supper, 
the  little,  bustling  landlady  had  cleared  away,  and 
Davy  was  thinking  of  going.  Suddenly  the  minister 
sprang  up  and  stood  before  the  hre,  looking  down  at 
his  guest. 

'  Davy,  do  you  want  to  know  why  I  didn't  write  to 
you  ?     I  was  ill  first — very  ill ;  then — /  was  in  hell ! ' 

David  started.  Into  the  thin,  ci'ooked  face,  with 
the  seeking  eyes,  there  had  flashed  an  expression — 
sinister,  indescribable,  a  sort  of  dumb  rage.  It  changed 
the  man  altogether. 

'  I  was  in  hell ! '  he  repeated  slowly.  '  I  know  no 
more  about  it.  Other  people  may  tell  you,  perhaps, 
if  you  come  across  them — I  can't.  There  were  days 
at  Clough  End — always  a  certain  number  in  the  year 
— when  this  earth  slipped  away  from  me,  and  the 
fiends  came  about  me,  but  this  was  months.  They 
say  I  was  overdone  in  the  cotton  famine  j^ears  ago 
just  before  I  came  to  Clough  End.  I  got  pneumonia 
after  I  left  you  that  May — it  doesn't  matter.  When 
I  knew  there  was  a  sun  again,  I  wrote  to  ask  about 
you.  You  had  left  Kinder  and  gone — no  one  knew 
where.' 

David  sat  nervously  silent,  not  knowing  what  to 
say,  his  mind  gradually  filling  with  the  sense  of  some- 
thing tragic,  irreparable.  Mr.  Ancrum,  too,  stood 
straight  before  him,  as  though  turned  to  stone. 

At  last  David  got  up  and  approached  him.  Had 
Ancrum  been  looking  he  must  have  been  touched  by 
the  change  in  the  lad's  expression.  The  hard  self- 
reliant  force  of  the  face  had  melted  into  feeling. 


252  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  n 

'  Are  you  better  now,  sir  ?  I  knew  you  must  have 
been  ill,'  he  stammered. 

Ancrum  started  as  though  just  wakened. 

'  111  ?  Yes,  I  was  pretty  bad,'  he  said  briskly,  and 
in  his  most  ordinary  tone,  though  with  a  long  breath. 
'  But  I'm  as  fit  as  anything  now.  Good  night,  Davy, 
good  night.  Come  a  walk  with  me  some  day  ?  Sun- 
day afternoon  ?  Done.  Here,  write  me  your  new 
address.' 

The  tall  form  and  curly  black  head  disappeared, 
the  little  lodging-house  room,  with  its  round  rosewood 
table,  its  horsehair  sofa,  its  chiffonnier,  and  its  prints 
of  '  Sport  at  Balmoral '  and  '  The  INIother's  Kiss,'  had 
resumed  the  dingy  formality  of  every  day. 

The  minister  sank  into  his  seat  and  held  his  hands 
out  over  the  blaze.  He  was  in  pain.  All  life  was  to 
him  more  or  less  a  struggle  with  physical  ill.  But  it 
was  not  so  primarily  that  he  conceived  it.  The  physi- 
cal ill  was  nothing  except  as  representing  a  philo- 
sophical necessity. 

That  lad,  with  all  his  raw  certainties — of  himself, 
his  knowledge,  his  Voltaire — the  poor  minister  felt 
once  or  twice  a  piteous  envy  of  him,  as  he  sat  on 
through  the  night  hours.  Life  was  ill-apportioned. 
The  poor,  the  lonely,  the  feeble — it  is  they  who  want 
certainty,  want  hope  most.  And  because  they  are 
lonely  and  feeble,  because  their  brain  tissues  are  dis- 
eased, and  their  life  from  no  fault  of  their  OAvn  un- 
natural, nature  who  has  made  them  dooms  them  to 
despair  and  doubt.  Is  there  any  'soul,'  any  'person- 
ality '  for  the  man  wlio  is  afflicted  and  weakened  Avith 
intermittent  melancholia  ?  Where  is  his  identity, 
where  his  responsibility  ?  And  if  there  is  none  for 
him,  how  does  the  accident  of  health  bestow  them  on 
his  neighbour  ? 


CHAT,    in 


YOUTH  2G3 


Questions  of  this  sort  had  beset  Richard  Ancrum 
for  years.  On  the  little  book-tal)le  to  his  right  lay 
papers  of  Huxley's,  of  Clilford's,  and  several  worn 
volumes  of  inental  pathology.  The  brooding  intellect 
was  for  ever  raising  the  same  problem,  the  same  spec- 
tre world  of  universal  doubt,  in  which  God,  conscience, 
faith,  were  words  without  a  meaning. 

But  side  by  side  with  the  restlessness  of  the  intel- 
lect there  had  always  gone  the  imperious  and  prevail- 
ing claim  of  temi)erament.  Beside  Huxley  and  Clif- 
ford, lay  Newman's  'Sermons'  and  'Apologia,'  and  a 
little  High  Church  manual  of  self-examination.  And 
on  the  wall  above  the  book-table  hung  a  memorandum- 
slate  on  which  were  a  number  of  addresses  and  dates 
— the  addresses  of  some  forty  boys  whom  the  minister 
taught  on  Sunday  in  one  of  the  Unitarian  Sunday 
schools  of  Manchester,  and  visited  in  tlie  week.  The 
care  and  training  of  street  arabs  had  been  his  passion 
when  he  was  still  a  student  at  Manchester  Xew  Col- 
lege. Then  had  come  his  moment  of  utterance — a 
thirst  for  preaching,  for  religious  influence ;  though 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  accept  any  particular 
shibboleth  or  take  any  kind  of  orders.  He  found 
something  congenial  for  a  time  to  a  deep  though  strug- 
gling faith  in  the  leadership  of  the  Christian  Brethren. 
Xow,  however,  something  had  broken  in  him  ;  he  could 
preach  no  more.  But  he  could  go  back  to  his  old 
school ;  he  could  teach  his  boys  on  Sundays  and  week 
days  ;  he  could  take  them  out  country  walks  in  spite  of 
his  lame  limb ;  he  could  deny  himself  even  the  com- 
monest necessaries  of  life  for  their  sake ;  he  could 
watch  over  each  of  them  with  a  fervour,  a  moral 
intensity  which  wore  him  out.  In  this,  in  some  insig- 
nificant journalism  for  a  religious  paper,  and  in  think- 
ing, he  spent  his  life. 

There  had  been  a  dark  page  in  his  history.     He  had 


254  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GEIEVE       book  ii 

hardly  left  ^lanchester  New  College  when  he  married 
suddenly  a  girl  of  some  beauty,  but  with  an  unde- 
veloped sensuous  temperament.  They  were  to  live  on 
a  crust  and  give  themselves  to  the  service  of  man. 
His  own  dream  was  still  fresh  when  she  deserted  him 
in  the  company  of  one  of  his  oldest  friends.  He  fol- 
lowed them,  found  them  both  in  black  depths  of 
remorse,  and  took  her  back.  But  the  strain  of  living 
together  proved  too  much.  She  implored  him  to  let 
her  go  and  earn  her  living  apart.  She  had  been  a 
teacher  and  she  proposed  to  return  to  her  profession. 
He  saw  her  established  in  Glasgow  in  the  house  of 
some  good  people  who  knew  her  history,  and  who  got 
her  a  post  in  a  small  school.  Then  he  returned  to 
Manchester  and  threw  himself  with  reckless  ardour 
into  the  Avork  of  feeding  the  hungry,  and  nursing  the 
dying,  in  the  cotton  famine.  He  emerged  a  broken 
man,  physically  and  morally,  liable  thenceforward  to 
recurrent  crises  of  melancholia;  but  they  were  not 
frequent  or  severe  enough  to  prevent  his  working. 
He  was  at  the  time  entirely  preoccupied  with  certain 
religious  questions,  and  thankfully  accepted  the  call 
to  the  little  congregation  at  Clougli  End. 

Since  then  he  had  visited  his  wife  twice  every  year. 
He  was  extremely  poor.  His  family,  who  had  des- 
tined him  for  the  Presbyterian  ministry,  were  estranged 
from  him  ;  hardly  anyone  in  Manchester  knew  him 
intimately  ;  only  in  one  house,  far  away  in  the  Scotch 
lowlands,  were  there  two  people,  who  deeply  loved 
and  thoroughly  understood  him.  There  he  went  when 
his  dark  hours  came  upon  him ;  and  thence,  after  the 
terrible  illness  which  overtook  him  on  his  leaving 
Clough  End,  he  emerged  again,  shattered  but  indom- 
itable, to  take  up  the  battle  of  life  as  he  understood  it.  ■ 

He  was  not  an  able  nor  a  literary  man.  His  mind 
Avas  a  strange  medley,  and  his  mental  sight  far  from 


CHAP.  IV  YOTJTir  250 

clear.  Of  late  the  study  of  Newman  had  been  a  reve- 
lation to  liiin.  I)Ut  he  did  not  cease  for  that  to  read 
the  books  of  scit'iitific  psychology  wliich  tortured  hiiu 
— the  books  which  seemed  to  make  of  mind  a  function 
of  matter,  and  man  the  slave  of  an  immoral  nature. 
The  only  persistent  and  original  gift  in  him — yet  after 
all  it  is  the  gift  which  for  ever  divides  the  sheep  from 
the  goats — was  tlmt  of  a  'liunger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness.' 


CHAPTER    IV 

It  was  towards  noon  on  a  November  day,  and  Dora 
Lomax  sat  working  at  her  embroidery  frame  in  the 
little  sitting-room  overlooking  ^Market  Place.  The 
pale  wintry  sun  touched  her  bent  head,  her  deftly 
moving  hand,  and  that  device  of  the  risen  Christ  cir- 
cled in  golden  flame  on  which  she  was  at  work.  The 
room  in  which  she  sat  was  old  and  low ;  tlie  ceiling 
bulged  here  and  there,  the  floor  had  unexpected  slopes 
and  declivities.  The  furniture  was  of  the  chea})est,  the 
commonest  odds  and  ends  of  a  broker's  shop,  for 
the  most  part.  There  was  the  usual  horsehair  suite, 
the  usual  cheap  sideboard,  and  dingy  druggeting  of  a 
large  geometrical  pattern.  But  amid  these  uninviting 
articles  tliere  were  a  few  things  which  gave  the  room 
individuality — some  old  prints  of  places  abroad,  of 
different  shapes  and  sizes,  which  partly  disguised  the 
blue  and  chocolate  paper  on  the  walls ;  some  bits  of 
foreign  carving,  Swiss  and  Italian ;  some  eggs  and 
shells  and  stuffed  birds,  some  of  these  last  from  the 
Vosges,  some  from  the  Ali)s ;  a  cageful  of  canaries, 
singing  their  best  against  the  noise  of  Manchester ; 
and,  lastly,  an  old  bookcase  full  of  miscellaneous  vol- 
umes, mostly  large  and  worthless  '  sets '  of  old  maga- 


25G  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  n 

zines  and  encyclopeedias,  which  represented  the  relics 
of  Daddy's  bookselling  days. 

The  room  smelt  strongly  of  cooking,  a  mingled 
odour  of  boiling  greens  and  frying  onions  and  stored 
apples  ■which  never  deserted  it,  and  produced  a  con- 
stant slight  sense  of  nausea  in  Dora,  who,  like  most 
persons  of  sedentary  occupation,  was  in  matters  of 
eating  and  digestion  somewhat  sensitive  and  delicate. 
From  below,  too,  there  seemed  to  sj)read  upwards  a 
general  sense  of  bustle  and  disquiet.  Doors  banged, 
knives  and  plates  rattled  perpetually,  the  great  swing- 
door  into  the  street  Avas  for  ever  opening  and  shutting, 
each  time  shaking  the  old,  frail  house  with  its  roughly 
built  additions  through  and  through,  and  there  was 
a  distant  skurry  of  voices  that  never  paused.  The 
restaurant  indeed  was  in  full  work,  and  Daddy's  voice 
could  be  heard  at  intervals,  shouting  and  chattering. 
Dora  had  been  at  work  since  half-past  seven,  market- 
ing, giving  orders,  making  up  accounts,  writing  bills 
of  fare,  and  otherwise  organising  the  work  of  the  day. 
Kow  she  had  left  the  work  for  an  hour  or  two  to  her 
father,  and  the  stout  Lancashire  cook  with  her  various 
handmaidens.  Daddy's  irritable  pride  liked  to  get 
her  out  of  the  way  and  make  a  lady  of  her  as  much  as 
she  would  allow,  and  in  her  secret  heart  she  often  felt 
that  her  embroidery,  for  which  she  was  well  paid  as  a 
skilled  and  inventive  hand,  furnished  a  securer  basis 
for  their  lives  than  this  restaurant,  which,  in  spite  of  its 
apparent  success,  was  a  frequent  source  of  dread  and 
discomfort  to  her.  The  money  obligation  it  involved 
filled  her  sometimes  with  a  kind  of  panic.  She  knew 
her  father  so  well  I 

Now,  as  she  sat  absorbed  in  her  work,  sewing  her 
heart  into  it,  for  every  stitch  in  it  delighted  not  only 
her  skilled  artistic  sense  but  her  religious  feeling, 
little  waves  of  anxious  thought  swept  across  her  one 


CHAP.    IV 


YOUTH  257 


after  another.  She  was  a  person  of  timid  and  brood- 
ing temperament,  and  her  father's  eccentricities  and 
past  history  provided  her  with  much  just  cause  for 
worry.     l>ut  to-day  she  was  not  tliinking  much  of  him. 

Again  and  again  there  came  between  her  and  her 
silks  a  face,  a  face  of  careless  pride  and  power,  framed 
in  strong  waves  of  black  hair.  It  had  once  repelled 
her  quite  as  much  as  it  attracted  her.  But  at  any  rate, 
ever  since  she  had  first  seen  it,  it  had  taken  a  place 
apart  in  her  mind,  as  though  in  the  yielding  stuff  of 
memory  and  feeling  one  impression  out  of  the  thou- 
sands of  every  day  had,  without  warning,  yet  irre- 
vocably, stamped  itself  deeper  than  the  rest.  The 
owner  of  it — David  Grieve — lilled  her  now,  as  always, 
with  invincible  antagonisms  and  dissents.  But  still 
the  thought  of  him  had  in  some  gradual  way  become 
of  late  part  of  her  habitual  consciousness,  associated 
always,  and  on  the  whole  painfully  associated,  with 
the  thought  of  Lucy  Purcell. 

For  Luoy  was  such  a  little  goose !  To  think  of  the 
way  in  which  she  had  behaved  towards  young  Grieve 
in  the  fortnight  succeeding  his  notice  to  quit,  before 
he  finally  left  Purcell's  service,  made  Dora  hot  all 
over.  How  could  Lucy  demean  herself  so  ?  and  show 
such  tempers  and  airs  towards  a  man  who  clearly  did 
not  think  anything  at  all  about  her  ?  And  now  she 
had  flung  herself  upon  Dora,  imploring  her  cousin  to 
help  her,  and  threatening  desperate  things  unless  she 
and  David  were  still  enabled  to  meet.  And  meanwhile 
Purcell  had  flatly  forbidden  any  communication  be- 
tween his  household  and  the  young  reprobate  he  had 
turned  out,  whose  threatened  prosperity  made  at  this 
moment  the  angry  preoccupation  of  his  life. 

What  was  Dora  to  do  ?  Was  she  to  aid  and  abet 
Lucy,  against  her  father's  will,  in  pursuing  David 
Grieve  ?     And  if  in  spite  of  all  appearances  the  little 

VOL.  I  s 


258     '         THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

self-willed  creature  succeeded,  and  Dora  were  the 
means  of  her  marrying  David,  how  would  Dora's  con- 
science stand  ?  Here  was  a  young  man  who  believed 
in  nothing,  and  openly  said  so,  who  took  part  in  those 
terrible  atheistical  meetings  and  discussions,  which, 
as  Father  Kussell  had  solemnly  said,  were  like  a 
plague-centre  in  Manchester,  drawing  in  and  cor- 
rupting soul  after  soul.  And  Dora  was  to  help  in 
throwing  her  young  cousin,  while  she  was  still  almost 
a  child  with  no  *  Church  principles '  to  aid  and  protect 
her,  into  the  hands  of  this  enemy  of  the  Lord  and  His 
Church? 

Then,  when  it  came  to  this  point,  Dora  would  be 
troubled  and  drawn  away  by  memories  of  young 
Grieve's  talk  and  ways,  of  his  dashes  into  Market 
Place  to  see  Daddy  since  he  had  set  up  for  himself, 
of  his  bold  plans  for  the  future  which  delighted  Daddy 
and  took  her  breath  away ;  of  the  flash  of  his  black 
eyes  ;  the  triumphant  energy  of  his  youth ;  and  those 
indications  in  him,  too,  which  had  so  startled  her  of 
late  since  they — she  and  he — had  drojjped  the  futile 
sparrings  in  which  their  acquaintance  began,  of  an 
inner  softness,  a  sensitive  magnetic  something — in- 
describable. 

Dora's  needle  paused  in  mid-air.  Then  her  hand 
dropped  on  her  lap.  A  slight  but  charming  smile — 
born  of  youth,  sympathy,  involuntary  admiration — 
dawned  on  her  face.  She  sat  so  for  a  minute  or  two 
lost  in  reminiscence. 

The  clock  outside  struck  twelve.  Dora  with  a  start 
felt  along  the  edge  of  her  frame  under  her  work  and 
brought  out  a  book.  It  was  a  little  black,  worn  manual 
of  prayei's  for  various  times  and  occasions  compiled  by 
a  High  Church  dignitary.  For  Dora  it  had  a  talis- 
manic  virtue.  She  turned  now  to  one  of  tlie  'Prayers 
for  Noonday,'  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  slipped 


CHAP.    IV 


YOUTH 


on  to  her  knees  for  an  instant.  Then  she  rose  happily 
and  went  back  to  her  work.  It  was  such  acts  as  this 
that  made  the  thread  on  which  lier  life  of  mystical 
emotion  was  strung. 

But  her  father  was  a  Secularist  of  a  pronounced 
type,  and  her  mother  had  been  a  rigid  Baptist,  old- 
fashioned  and  sincere,  filled  with  a  genuine  horror  of 
Papistry  and  all  its  ways. 

Adrian  O'Connor  Lomax,  to  give  Daddy  his  whole 
magnificent  name,  was  the  son  of  a  reed-maker,  of 
Irish  extraction,  at  Hyde,  and  was  brought  up  at  first 
to  follow  his  father's  trade — that  of  making  the  wire 
'  reed,'  or  frame,  into  which  the  threads  of  the  warp 
are  fastened  before  weaving.  But  such  patient  drudg- 
ery, often  continued,  as  it  was  in  those  days,  for  twelve 
and  fourteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four,  was  gall 
and  wormwood  to  a  temperament  like  Daddy's.  He 
developed  a  taste  for  reading,  fell  in  with  Byron's 
poems,  and  caught  the  fever  of  them ;  then  branched 
out  into  politics  just  at  the  time  of  the  first  Reform 
Bill,  when  all  over  Lancashire  the  memory  of  Peter- 
loo  was  still  burning,  and  when  men  like  Henry  Hunt 
and  Samuel  Bamford  were  the  political  heroes  of 
every  weaver's  cottage.  He  developed  a  taste  for 
itinerant  lecturing  and  preaching,  and  presently  left 
his  family  and  tramped  to  Manchester. 

Here  after  many  vicissitudes — including  an  enthusi- 
astic and  on  the  whole  creditable  participation,  as  an 
itinerant  lecturer,  in  the  movement  for  the  founding 
of  Mechanics'  Institutes,  then  spreading  all  over  the 
north — Daddy,  to  his  ill-fortune,  came  across  his 
future  brother-in-law,  the  bookseller  Purcell.  At  the 
moment  Daddy  was  in  a  new  and  unaccustomed  phase 
of  pietv.  After  a  period  of  revolutionary  spouting,  in 
which  Byron,   Tom   Paine,  and  the  various  publica- 


2G0  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

tions  of  Eichard  Carlile  had  formed  his  chief  scrip- 
tures, a  certain  Baptist  preacher  laid  liokl  of  the 
Irishman's  mercurial  sense.  Daddy  was  awakened 
and  converted,  burnt  his  Byron  and  his  Tom  Paine  in 
his  three-pair  back  with  every  circumstance  of  insult 
and  contumely,  and  looked  about  for  an  employer 
Avorthy  of  one  of  the  elect.  Purcell  at  the  time  had  a 
shop  in  one  of  the  main  streets  connecting  Manches- 
ter and  Salford ;  he  was  already  an  elder  at  the 
chapel  Daddy  frequented  ;  the  two  made  acquaintance 
and  Lomax  became  Purcell's  assistant.  At  the  moment 
the  trade  offered  to  him  attracted  Daddy  vastly.  He 
had  considerable  pretensions  to  literature ;  was  a 
Shakespearian,  a  debater,  and  a  haunter  of  a  certain 
literary  symposium,  held  for  a  long  time  at  one  of  the 
old  Manchester  inns,  and  attended  by  most  of  the 
small  wits  and  poets  of  a  then  small  and  homely  town. 
The  gathering  had  nothing  saintly  about  it;  free 
drinking  went  often  hand  in  hand  with  free  thought ; 
Daddy's  infant  zeal  was  shocked,  but  Daddy's  instincts 
were  invincible,  and  he  went. 

The  result  of  the  bookselling  experiment  has  been 
already  told  by  Daddy  himself.  It  was,  of  course, 
inevitable.  Purcell  was  then  a  young  man,  but  in  his 
dealings  Avith  Daddy  he  showed  precisely  the  same 
cast-iron  self-importance,  the  same  slowness  of  brain 
coupled  witli  the  same  assumptions  of  an  unbounded 
and  righteous  authority,  the  same  unregenerate  greedi- 
ness in  small  matters  of  gain  and  loss  which  now  in 
his  later  life  had  made  him  odious  to  David  Grieve. 
Moreover,  Daddy,  by  a  happy  instinct,  had  at  once 
made  common  cause  with  Purcell's  downtrodden  sis- 
ter, going  on  even,  as  his  passionate  sense  of  opposi- 
tion developed,  to  make  love  to  the  poor  luimble  thing 
mainly  for  tlie  sake  of  annoying  the  brother.  The 
crisis  came  ;  the  irritated  tyrant  brought  down  a  heavy 


CHAP.  IV  Yr)u  rii  261 

hand,  and  Daddy  and  Isabella  disappeared  together 
from  the  establishnient  in  Chapel  Street. 

liy  the  time  Daddy  had  set  up  as  the  husband  of 
Purcell's  sister  in  a  little  shop  precisely  opposite  to 
that  of  his  former  employer,  he  had  again  thrown  over 
all  pretensions  to  sanctity,  was,  on  the  contrary,  con- 
vinced afresh  that  all  religion  was  one  vast  perennial 
im^josture,  dominated,  we  may  suppose,  in  this  as  in 
most  other  matters,  by  the  demon  of  hatred  which 
now  possessed  him  towards  his  brother-in-law.  His 
wife,  poor  soul,  was  beginning  to  feel  herself  tied  for 
good  to  the  tail  of  a  comet  destined  to  some  mad  career 
or  other,  and  quite  uncontrollable  by  any  efforts  of 
hers.  Lomax  had  married  her  for  the  most  unprom- 
ising reasons  in  the  world,  and  he  soon  tired  of  her, 
and  of  the  trade,  which  required  a  sustained  effort, 
which  he  was  incapable  of  giving.  As  long  as  Purcell 
remained  opposite,  indeed,  hate  and  rivalry  kept  him 
up  to  the  mark.  He  was  an  attractive  figure  at  that 
time,  with  his  long  fair  hair  and  his  glancing  greenish 
eyes ;  and  his  queer  discursive  talk  attracted  many  a 
customer,  whom  he  would  have  been  quite  competent 
to  keep  had  his  character  been  of  the  same  profitable 
stuff  as  his  ability. 

But  when  Purcell  vanished  across  the  river  into 
Manchester,  the  zest  of  Daddy's  bookselling  enter- 
prise de})arted  also.  He  began  to  neglect  his  shop, 
was  off  here  and  there  lecturing  and  debating,  and 
when  he  came  back  again  it  was  plain  to  the  wife 
that  their  scanty  money  had  been  squandered  on 
other  excesses  than  those  of  talk.  At  last  the  busi- 
ness fell  to  ruins,  and  debts  pressed.  Then  suddenly 
Daddy  was  persuaded  by  a  French  commercial  travel- 
ler to  take  up  his  old  trade  of  reed-making,  and  go 
and  seek  employment  across  the  Channel,  where  reed- 
makers  were  said  to  be  in  demand. 


262  THE   HISTOKY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

In  ecstasy  at  the  idea  of  travel  thus  presented  to 
him,  Daddy  devoured  what  books  about  France  he 
could  get  hold  of,  and  tried  to  teach  himself  French. 
Then  one  morning,  without  a  Avord  to  his  wife,  he 
stole  downstairs  and  out  of  the  shop,  and  was  far  on 
the  road  to  London  before  his  flight  was  discovered. 
His  poor  wife  shed  some  tears,  but  he  had  ceased  to 
care  for  her  she  believed,  largely  because  she  had 
brought  him  no  children,  and  his  habits  had  begun  to 
threaten  to  lead  her  with  unpleasant  rapidity  to  the 
workhouse.  So  she  took  comfort,  and  with  the  help 
of  some  friends  set  up  a  little  stationery  and  fancy 
business,  which  just  kept  her  alive. 

Meanwhile  Lomax  found  no  work  in  Picardy, 
whither  he  had  first  gone,  and  ultimately  wandered 
across  France  to  Alsace,  in  search  of  bread,  a  prey  to 
all  possible  hardships  and  privations.  But  nothing 
daunted  him.  The  glow  of  adventure  and  romance 
was  on  every  landscape.  Cathedrals,  forests,  the  wide 
river-plains  of  central  France,  with  their  lights  and 
distances, — all  things  on  this  new  earth  and  under 
these  new  heavens  'haunted  him  like  a  passion.'  He 
travelled  in  perpetual  delight,  making  love  no  doubt 
here  and  there  to  some  passing  Mignon,  and  starving 
with  the  gayest  of  hearts. 

At  Mulhausen  he  found  work,  and  being  ill  and 
utterly  destitute,  submitted  to  it  for  a  while.  But  as 
soon  as  he  had  got  back  his  health  and  saved  some 
money,  he  set  out  again,  walking  this  time,  staff  in 
hand,  over  the  whole  Rhine  country  and  into  the 
Netherlands.  There  in  the  low  Dutch  plains  he  fell 
ill  again,  and  the  beauty  of  the  Rhineland  was  no 
longer  there  to  stand  like  a  spell  between  him  and  the 
pains  of  poverty.  He  seemed  to  come  to  himself, 
after  a  dream  in  which  the  world  and  all  its  forms  had 
passed  him  by  'apparelled  in  celestial  light.'     And 


CHAP.  IV  YOUTH  263 

the  process  of  self-finding  was  attended  by  some  at 
least  of  those  salutary  pangs  which  eternally  belong 
to  it.  lie  suddenly  took  a  resolution,  crept  on  board 
a  coal  smack  going  from  a  Dutch  port  to  Grimsby, 
toiled  across  Lincolnshire  and  Yorkshire,  and  appeared 
one  evening,  worn  to  a  shadow,  in  his  wife's  little 
shop  in  Salford. 

He  was  received  as  foolish  women  in  wliom  there  is 
no  ineradicable  taint  of  cruelty  or  hate  will  always 
receive  the  prodigal  who  returns.  And  when  Daddy 
had  been  fed  and  clothed,  he  turned  out  for  a  time  to 
be  so  amiable,  so  grateful  a  Daddy,  such  good  company, 
as  he  sat  in  the  chair  by  his  wife's  fire  and  told  stories 
of  his  travels  to  her  and  anybody  else  who  might  drop 
in,  that  not  only  the  wife  but  the  neighbourhood  was 
appeased.  His  old  friends  came  back  to  him,  he  be- 
gan to  receive  overtures  to  write  in  some  of  the  hum- 
bler papers,  to  lecture  on  his  adventures  in  the 
Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  towns.  Daddy  expanded, 
harangued,  grew  daily  in  good  looks  and  charm  under 
his  wife's  eyes. 

At  last  one  day  the  papers  came  in  with  news  of 
Louis  Philippe's  overthrow.  Daddy  grew  restless,  and 
began  to  study  the  foreign  news  with  avidity.  Revo- 
lution spread,  and  what  with  democracy  abroad  and 
Chartism  at  home,  there  was  more  stimulus  in  the  air 
than  such  brains  as  Daddy's  could  rightly  stand.  One 
May  day  he  walked  into  the  street,  looked  hesitatingly 
up  and  down  it,  shading  his  eyes  against  the  sun. 
Then  with  a  shake  of  his  long  hair,  as  of  one  throw- 
ing off  a  weight,  he  drew  his  hat  from  under  his  arm, 
put  it  on,  felt  in  his  pockets,  and  set  off  at  a  run, 
head  downwards,  while  poor  Isabella  Lorn  ax  was  sweep- 
ing her  kitchen.  During  the  next  few  days  he  was  heard 
of,  rumour  said,  now  here,  now  there,  but  one  might  as 
well  have  attempted  to  catch  and  hold  the  Pied  Piper. 


204  THE   HISTORY  f)F  DAVTD   GKIEVE       hook  ii 

He  was  away  for  ratlier  more  than  twenty  months. 
Then  one  day,  as  before,  a  lean,  emaciated,  sun- 
browned  figure  came  slowly  up  the  Salford  street, 
looking  for  a  familiar  door.  It  was  Daddy.  He  went 
into  the  shop,  Avhich  was  empty,  stared,  with  a  coun- 
tenance in  which  relief  and  repulsion  were  oddly 
mingled,  at  the  boxes  of  stationery,  at  the  dusty  coun- 
ter with  its  string  and  glass  cases,  when  suddenly  the 
inside  door,  which  was  standing  ajar,  was  pushed 
stealthily  inwards,  and  a  child  stood  in  the  doorway. 
It  was  a  tottering  baby  of  a  year  old,  holding  in  one 
fat  hand  a  crust  of  bread  which  it  had  been  suckiner. 
When  it  saw  the  stranger  it  looked  at  him  gravely  for 
a  second.  Then  without  a  trace  of  fear  or  shyness  it 
came  forward,  holding  up  its  crust  appealingly,  its 
rosy  chin  and  lips  still  covered  with  bread-crumbs. 

Daddy  stared  at  the  apparition,  which  seemed  to 
him  the  merest  witchcraft.  For  it  was  himself,  dwarfed 
to  babyhood  and  pinafores.  His  eyes,  his  prominent 
brow,  his  colour,  his  trick  of  holding  the  head — they 
were  all  there,  absurdly  there. 

He  gave  a  cry,  which  Avas  answered  by  another  cry 
from  behind.  His  wife  stood  in  the  door.  The  stout, 
foolish  Isabella  was  white  to  the  lips.  Even  she  felt 
the  awe,  the  poetry  of  the  moment. 

'Aye,'  she  said,  trembling.  'Aye!  it's  yourn.  It 
was  born  seven  months  after  yo  left  us.' 

Daddy,  without  greeting  his  wife,  threw  himself 
down  by  the^babe,  and  burst  into  tears.  He  had  come 
back  in  a  still  darker  mood  than  on  his  first  return, 
his  egotistical  belief  in  himself  more  rudely  shaken 
than  ever  by  the  attempts,  the  failures,  the  miseries 
of  the  last  eighteen  months.  For  one  illuminating  mo- 
ment he  saw  that  he  was  a  poor  fool,  and  that  his 
youth  was  squandered  and  gone.  But  in  its  stead, 
there — dropped  suddenly  beside  him  by  the  forgiving 


CHAP.  IV  YOUTH  265 

gods — stood  this  new  youth  sprung  from  his,  and  all 
his  own,  this  child — Dora. 

He  took  to  her  with  a  passion  which  the  trembling 
Isabella  thought  a  great  deal  too  excessive  to  last. 
But  though  the  natural  Daddy  very  soon  reappeared, 
with  all  the  aggravating  peculiarities  which  belonged 
to  him,  the  passion  did  last,  and  the  truant  strayed 
no  more.  He  set  up  a  small  printing  business  with 
the  help  of  some  old  customers — it  was  always  char- 
acteristic of  the  man  that,  be  his  failings  what  they 
might,  he  never  lacked  friends — and  with  lecturing 
and  writing,  and  Isabella's  shop,  they  struggled  on 
somehow.  Isabella's  life  was  hard  enough.  Daddy 
was  only  good  when  he  was  happy ;  and  at  other 
times  he  dipped  recklessly  into  vices  which  would 
have  been  the  ruin  of  them  all  had  they  been  persist- 
ent. But  by  some  kind  fate  he  always  emerged,  and 
more  and  more,  as  years  went  on,  owing  to  Dora.  He 
drank,  but  not  hopelessly ;  he  gambled,  but  not  past 
salvation  ;  and  there  was  generally,  as  we  have  said, 
some  friend  at  hand  to  pick  the  poor  besmirched 
featherbrain  out  of  the  mire. 

Dora  grew  up  not  unhappily.  There  were  shifts 
and  privations  to  put  up  with ;  there  were  stormy 
days  when  life  seemed  a  hurricane  of  words  and  tears. 
But  there  were  bright  spaces  in  between,  when  Daddy 
had  good  resolutions,  or  a  little  more  money  than 
usual ;  and  with  every  year  the  daughter  instinctively 
knew  that  her  spell  over  her  father  strengthened. 
She  was  on  the  whole  a  serious  child,  with  fair  pale 
hair,  much  given  to  straying  in  long  loose  ends  about 
her  prominent  brow  and  round  cheeks.  Yet  at  the 
Baptist  school,  whither  she  was  sent,  she  was  certainly 
popular.  She  had  a  passion  for  the  little  ones ;  and 
her  grey-blue  eyes,  over  which  in  general  the  fringed 
lids  drooped  too  much,  had  a  charming  trick  of  sudden 


266  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

smiles,  when  the  soft  soul  behind  looked  for  an  instant 
clearly  and  blithely  out.  At  home  she  was  a  little 
round-shouldered  drudge  in  her  mother's  service.  At 
chapel  she  sat  very  patiently  and  happily  under  a 
droning  minister,  and  when  the  inert  and  despondent 
Isabella  would  have  let  most  of  her  religious  duties 
drop,  in  the  face  of  many  troubles  and  a  scoffing 
husband,  the  child  of  fourteen  gently  and  persistently 
held  her  to  them. 

At  last,  however,  when  Dora  was  seventeen,  Isabella 
died  of  cancer,  and  Daddy,  who  had  been  much  shaken 
and  terrified  by  her  sufferings  in  her  last  illness,  fell 
for  a  while  into  an  irritable  melancholy,  from  which 
not  even  Dora  could  divert  him.  It  was  then  that  he 
seemed  for  the  first  time  to  cross  the  line  which  had 
hitherto  divided  him  from  ruin.  The  drinking  at  the 
White  Horse,  where  the  literary  circle  met  of  which 
Lomax  had  been  so  long  an  ornament,  had  been  of  late 
going  from  bad  to  worse.  The  households  of  the  wits 
concerned  were  up  in  arms  ;  neighbourhood  and  police 
began  to  assert  themselves.  One  night  the  trembling 
Dora  waited  hour  after  hour  for  her  father.  About 
midnight  he  staggered  in,  maddened  with  drink  and 
fresh  from  a  skirmish  with  the  police.  Finding  her 
there  waiting  for  him,  pale  and  silent,  he  did  what  he 
had  never  done  before  under  any  stress  of  trouble — 
struck  and  swore  at  her.  Dora  sank  down  with  a 
groan,  and  in  another  minute  Lomax  was  dashing  his 
head  against  the  wall,  vowing  that  he  would  beat  his 
brains  out.  In  the  hours  that  followed,  Dora's  young 
soul  was  stretched  as  it  were  on  a  rack,  from  which  it 
rose,  not  weakened,  bvit  with  new  powers  and  a  loftier 
statui-e.  All  her  girlish  levities  and  illusions  seemed 
to  drop  away  from  her.  She  saw  her  mission,  and 
took  her  squalid  (T^dipus  in  charge. 

Next  morning  she  went  to  some  of  her  father's 


CHAP.  IV  YOUTH  267 

friends,  unknown  to  Daddy,  and  came  back  with  a  light 
in  her  blanched  face,  bearing  the  offer  of  some  work  on 
a  Radical  paper  at  Leicester.  Daddy,  now  broken  and 
miserable,  submitted,  and  off  they  went. 

At  Leicester  the  change  of  moral  and  physical  cli- 
mate produced  for  a  while  a  wonderful  effect.  Daddy 
found  himself  marvellously  at  ease  among  the  Secularist 
and  Radical  stockingers  of  the  town,  and  soon  became 
well  known  to  them  as  a  being  half  butt,  half  oracle. 
Dora  set  herself  to  learn  dressmaking,  and  did  her  best 
to  like  the  new  place  and  the  new  people.  It  was  at 
Leicester,  a  place  seething  with  social  experiment  in 
its  small  provincial  way,  with  secularism,  Owenism, 
anti-vaccination,  and  much  else,  that  Lomax  fell  a 
victim  to  one  'ism  the  more — to  vegetarianism.  It 
was  there  that,  during  an  editorial  absence,  and  in  the 
first  fervour  of  conversion,  Daddy  so  belaboured  a  car- 
nivorous world  in  tlie  columns  of  the  'Penny  Banner' 
for  which  he  worked,  and  so  grotesquely  and  persist- 
ently reduced  all  the  problems  of  tlie  time  to  terms  of 
nitrogen  and  albumen,  that  curt  dismissal  came  upon 
him,  and  for  a  time  Dora  saw  nothing  but  her  preca- 
rious earnings  between  them  and  starvation.  It  was 
then  also  that,  by  virtue  of  that  queer  charm  he  could 
always  exercise  when  he  pleased,  he  laid  hold  on  a 
young  Radical  manufacturer  and  got  out  of  him  a 
loan  of  200/.  for  the  establishment  of  a  vegetarian 
restaurant  wherein  Leicester  was  to  be  taught  how  to 
feed. 

But  Leicester,  alas !  remained  unregenerate.  In 
the  midst  of  Daddy's  preparations  a  commercial  trav- 
eller, well  known  both  to  Manchester  and  Leicester, 
repeated  to  him  one  day  a  remark  of  PurcelFs,  to  the 
effect  that  since  Daddy's  migration  ^Manchester  had 
been  well  rid  of  a  vagabond,  and  he,  Purcell,  of   a 


268  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

family  disgrace.  Daddy,  bursting  with  fatuous  rage, 
and  possessed  besides  of  the  wiklest  dreams  of  fortune 
on  the  strength  of  his  200Z.,  straightway  made  up  his 
mind  to  return  to  iManehester,  'pull  Purcell's  nose,' 
and  plant  himself  and  his  prosperity  that  was  to  be  in 
the  bookseller's  eyes.  He  broke  in  upon  Dora  at  her 
work,  and  poured  into  her  astonished  ears  a  stream  of 
talk,  marked  by  a  mad  inventiveness,  partly  in  the 
matter  of  vegetarian  receipts,  still  more  in  that  of 
Purcell's  future  discomforts.  When  Daddy  was  once 
launched  into  a  subject  that  s\iited  him,  he  was  inex- 
haustible. His  phrases  flowed  for  ever ;  of  words  he 
was  always  sure.  Like  a  certain  French  talker,  '  his 
sentences  were  like  cats ;  he  showered  them  into  air 
and  they  found  their  feet  without  trouble.' 

Dora  sat  through  it,  bewildered  and  miserable.  Go 
back  to  Manchester  where  they  had  been  so  unhappy, 
where  the  White  Horse  and  its  crew  Avere  waiting  for 
her  father,  simply  to  get  into  debt  and  incur  linal  ruin 
for  the  sake  of  a  mad  fancy  she  humoured  but  could 
not  believe  in,  and  a  still  madder  thirst  for  personal 
vensreance  on  a  man  who  was  more  than  a  match  for 
anything  Daddy  could  do  !     She  was  in  despair. 

But  Daddy  was  obdurate,  brutal  in  his  determination 
to  have  his  way;  and  when  she  angered  him  with  her 
remonstrances,  he  turned  upon  her  with  an  irritable — 

'I  know  what  it  is — damn  it!  It's  that  Puseyite 
gang  you've  taken  up  Avith — you  think  of  nothing  but 
them.  As  if  you  couldn't  find  antics  and  petticoats 
and  priests  in  Manchester — they're  everywhere — like 
weeds.  Wherever  there's  a  dunghill  of  human  credu- 
lity they  swarm.' 

Dora  looked  proudly  at  her  father,  as  though  dis- 
daining to  reply,  gentle  creature  that  she  was  ;  then 
she  bent  again  over  her  work,  and  a  couple  of  tears 
fell  on  the  seam  she  was  sewing. 


CHAP.  IV  YOUTH  269 

Aye,  it  was  true  cnougli.  In  leaving  Leicester,  after 
these  two  years,  she  was  leaving  Avhat  to  her  had  been 
a  si)iritual  l)irthiilace, — tearing  asunder  a  new  and 
tender  growtli  of  the  soul. 

This  was  how  it  had  come  about. 

On  her  first  arrival  in  Leicester,  in  a  milieu,  that  is 
to  say,  where  at  the  time  'Gavroche,'  as  M.  Eenan 
calls  him — the  street  philosopher  who  is  no  less  cer- 
tain and  no  more  rational  than  the  street  preacher — 
reigned  supreme,  where  her  Secularist  father  and  his 
associates,  hot-headed  and  early  representatives  of  a 
phase  of  thought  which  has  since  then  found  much 
abler,  though  hardly  less  virulent,  expression  in  such 
a  paper,  say,  as  the  •  National  Keformer,'  were  for  ever 
rending  and  trampling  on  all  the  current  religious 
images  and  ideas,  Uora  shrank  into  herself  more  and 
more.  She  had  always  been  a  Baptist  because  her 
mother  was.  But  in  her  deep  reaction  against  her 
father's  associates,  the  chapel  which  she  frequented 
did  not  now  satisfy  hei*.  She  hungered  for  she  knew 
not  what,  certain  fastidious  artistic  instincts  awaken- 
ing the  while  in  unexpected  ways. 

Then  one  Easter  Eve,  as  she  came  back  from  an 
errand  into  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  she  passed  a 
little  iron  church  standing  in  a  very  poor  neighbour- 
hood, where,  as  she  knew,  a  '  Puseyite '  curate  in 
charge  officiated,  and  where  a  good  many  disturbances 
which  had  excited  the  populace  had  taken  place.  She 
went  in.  The  curate,  a  long,  gaunt  figure,  of  a  famil- 
iar monkish  type,  Avas  conducting  'vespers'  for  the 
benefit  of  some  twenty  hearers,  mostly  women  in 
black.  The  little  cliurch  was  half  decorated  for  Eas- 
ter, though  the  altar  had  still  its  Lenten  bareness. 
Something  in  the  ordering  of  the  place,  in  its  colours, 
its  scents,  in  the  voice  of  the  priest,  in  the  short  ad- 
dress he  delivered  after  the  service,  dwelling  in  a  tone 


270  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

of  intimate  emotion,  the  tone  of  the  pastor  to  the 
souls  he  guides  and  knows,  on  the  preparation  needful 
for  the  Easter  Eucharist,  struck  home  to  Dora.  Next 
day  she  was  present  at  the  Easter  festival.  Never 
had  religion  spoken  so  touchingly  to  her  before  as 
through  these  hymns,  these  flowers,  this  incense,  this 
Eucharistic  ceremonial  wherein — being  the  midday 
celebration — the  congregation  were  merely  hushed 
spectators  of  the  most  pathetic  and  impressive  act  in 
the  religious  symbolism  of  mankind.  In  the  dark 
corner  where  she  had  hidden  herself,  Dora  felt  the 
throes  of  some  new  birth  within  her.  In  six  weeks 
from  that  time  she  had  been  admitted,  after  instruc- 
tion, to  the  Anglican  communion. 

Tlienceforward  another  existence  began  for  this 
child  of  English  Dissent,  in  whom,  however,  some  old 
Celtic  leaven  seems  to  have  always  kept  up  a  vague 
unrest,  till  the  way  of  mystery  and  poetry  was 
found. 

Daddy — the  infidel  Daddy — stormed  a  good  deal, 
and  lamented  himself  still  more,  when  these  facts 
became  known  to  him.  Dora  had  become  a  supersti- 
tious, priest-ridden  dolt,  of  no  good  to  him  or  anyone 
else  any  more.  What,  indeed,  was  to  become  of  him  ? 
Natural  affection  cannot  stand  against  the  priest.  A 
daughter  cannot  love  her  father  and  go  to  confession. 
DoAvn  with  the  abomination — ecrasez  Vinfdme  ! 

Dora  smiled  sadly  and  went  her  way.  Against  her 
sweet  silent  tenacity  Daddy  measured  himself  in  vain. 
She  would  be  a  good  daughter  to  him,  but  she  would 
be  a  good  churchwoman  first.  He  began  to  perceive 
in  her  that  germ  of  detachment  from  things  earthly 
and  human  which  all  ceremonialism  jDroduces,  and  in 
a  sudden  terror  gave  way  and  opposed  her  no  more. 
Afterwards,  in  a  curious  way,  he  came  even  to  relish 
the  change  in  her.     The  friends  it  brought  her,  the 


ciiAi'.  IV  YOUTH  271 

dainty  ordering  of  tlie  little  flower-decked  oratory  she 
made  for  lierself  in  one  corufr  of  her  bare  attic  rooiii, 
the  sweet  sobriety  and  relinenient  which  her  new 
loves  and  aspirations  and  self-denials  brought  with 
them  into  the  house,  touched  the  poetical  instincts 
which  were  always  dormant  in  the  queer  old  fellow, 
and  besides  flattered  some  strong  and  secret  ambitions 
which  he  cherished  for  his  daughter.  It  appeared  to 
him  to  have  raised  her  socially,  to  have  made  a  lady 
of  her — this  joining  the  Church.  Well,  the  women 
must  have  some  religious  bag  or  other  to  run  their 
heads  into,  and  the  Church  bag  perhaps  Avas  the  most 
seemly. 

On  the  day  of  their  return  to  Manchester,  Dadd}', 
sitting  with  crossed  arms  and  legs  in  a  corner  of  tlie 
railway  carriage,  miglit  have  sat  for  a  fairy -book  illus- 
tration of  Rumpelstiltzehen.  His  old  peaked  hat, 
which  he  had  himself  brouglit  from  the  Tyrol,  fell 
forward  over  his  frowning  brow,  his  cloak  was  caught 
fiercely  about  him,  and,  as  the  quickly-passing  mill- 
towns  began  to  give  notice  of  Manchester  as  soon  as 
the  Derbyshire  vales  were  left  behind,  his  glittering 
eyes  disclosed  an  inward  fever — a  fever  of  contrivance 
and  of  hate.  He  was  determined  to  succeed,  and 
equally  determined  to  make  his  success  Purcell's 
annoyance. 

Dora  sat  opposite,  -with  her  bird-cage  on  her  knee, 
looking  sad  and  weary.  She  had  left  behind,  perhaps 
for  ever,  the  dear  friends  who  had  opened  to  her  the 
way  of  holiness,  and  guided  her  first  steps.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  of  gratitude  and  emotion  as  she 
thought  of  them. 

Two  things  only  were  pleasant  to  remember.  One 
was  that  the  Church  embroidery  she  had  begun  in  her 
young  zeal  at  Leicester,  using  licr  odds  and  ends  of 


272  TTTE   TITSTOin'  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

time,  to  supplement  the  needs  of  a  struggling  clmrcli 
depending  entirely  on  voluntary  contributions,  was 
now  probably  to  become  her  trade.  Vox  she  had  shown 
remarkable  aptitude  tor  it;  and  she  carried  introduc- 
tions to  a  large  church-furniture  shop  in  Manchester 
which  would  almost  certainly  employ  her. 

The  other  was  the  fact  that  somewhere  in  Manches- 
ter she  had  a  girl-cousin — Lucy  Purcell — who  must  be 
about  sixteen.  Purcell  had  married  after  his  migra- 
tion to  Half  Street ;  his  wife  proved  to  be  delicate 
and  died  in  a  few  years  ;  this  little  girl  was  all  that 
was  left  to  him.  I>ora  had  only  seen  her  once  or  twice 
in  her  life.  The  enmity  between  Lomax  and  Purcell 
of  course  kept  the  families  apart,  and,  after  her 
mother's  early  death,  Purcell  sent  his  daughter  to  a 
boarding-school  and  so  washed  his  hands  of  the  trouble 
of  her  bringing  up.  But  in  spite  of  these  barriers 
Dora  well  remembered  a  slim,  long-armed  schoolgirl, 
much  dressed  and  becurled,  who  once  in  a  by-street  of 
Salford  had  run  after  her  and,  looking  round  carefully 
to  see  that  no  one  was  near,  had  thrust  an  eager  face 
into  hers  and  kissed  her  suddenly.  '  Dora, — is  your 
mother  better  ?  I  wish  I  could  come  and  see  you. 
Oh,  it's  horrid  of  people  to  quarrel !  P>ut  I  mustn't 
stay, — some  one'll  see,  and  I  should  just  catch  it! 
Good-bye,  Dora ! '  and  so  another  kiss,  very  hasty  and 
frightened,  but  very  welcome  to  the  cheek  it  touched. 

As  they  neared.  Manchester,  Dora,  in  her  loneliness 
of  soul,  thought  very  tenderly  of  Lucy— wondered  how 
she  had  grown  up,  whether  she  was  pretty  and  many 
other  things.  She  had  certainly  been  a  pretty  child. 
Of  course  they  must  know  each  other  and  be  friends. 
Dora  could  not  let  her  father's  feud  come  between  her 
and  her  only  relation .  Purcell  might  keep  them  apart ; 
but  she  would  show  him  she  meant  no  harm  ;  and  she 
would  bring  her  father  round — she  would  and  must. 


CHAP.  TV  YOUTH  273 

Two  years  had  gone  by.  Of  Daddy's  two  objects  in 
leaving  Leicester,  one  had  so  far  succeeded  better  than 
any  rational  being  Avould  have  foreseen. 

On  the  first  morning  alter  their  arrival  he  went  out, 
giving  Dora  the  slip  lest  she  might  cramp  him  incon- 
veniently in  his  decision ;  and  came  back  radiant,  hav- 
ing taken  a  deserted  seed-shop  in  ]\rarket  Place,  which 
had  a  long,  irregular  addition  at  the  back,  formerly  a 
warehouse,  providentially  suited,  so  Daddy  declared, 
to  the  purposes  of  a  restaurant.  The  rent  he  had 
promised  to  give  seemed  to  Dora  a  crime,  considering 
their  resources.  The  thought  of  it,  the  terror  of  the 
servants  he  was  engaging,  the  knowledge  of  the  ridi- 
cule and  blame  with  which  their  old  friends  regarded 
her  father's-  proceedings,  these  things  kept  the  girl 
awake  night  after  night. 

But  he  would  hear  no  remonstrances,  putting  all 
she  had  to  say  aside  with  an  arrogant  boastfulness, 
which  never  failed. 

In  they  went.  Dora  set  her  teeth  and  did  her  best, 
keeping  as  jealous  a  watch  on  the  purse-strings  as 
she  could,  and  furnishing  their  three  rooms  above  the 
shop  for  as  few  shillings  as  might  be,  while  Daddy 
was  painting  and  decorating,  composing  menus,  and 
ransacking  recipes  with  the  fever  of  an  artist,  now 
writing  letters  to  the  Manchester  papers,  or  lecturing 
to  audiences  in  the  Mechanics'  Institute  and  the  dif- 
ferent working  men's  clubs,  and  now  plastering  the 
shop-front  with  gi-otesque  labels,  or  posing  at  his  own 
doorway  and  buttonholing  the  passers-by  in  the  Tj^ro- 
lese  brigand's  costume  which  was  his  favourite  garb. 

The  thing  took.  There  is  a  certain  mixture  of 
prophet  and  mountebank  which  can  be  generally 
counted  upon  to  hit  the  popular  fancy,  and  Daddy 
attained  to  it.  IVIoreover,  the  moment  was  favourable. 
After  the  terrible  strain  of  the  cotton-famine  and  the 

VOL.  I  T 


274  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

horrors  of  the  cholera,  Manchester  was  prosperous 
again.  Trade  was  brisk,  and  the  passage  of  the  new 
Reform  Bill  had  given  a  fresh  outlet  and  impulse  to 
the  artisan  mind  which  did  but  answer  to  the  social 
and  intellectual  advance  made  by  the  working  classes 
since  '32.  The  huge  town  was  growing  fast,  was 
seething  with  life,  with  ambitions,  with  all  the  pas- 
sions and  ingenuities  that  belong  to  gain  and  money- 
making  and  the  race  for  success.  It  was  pre-eminently 
a  city  of  young  men  of  all  nationalities,  three-fourths 
constantly  engaged  in  the  cJiasse  for  money,  according 
to  their  degrees — here  for  shillings,  there  for  sover- 
eigns, there  for  thousands.  In  such  a  milieu  any  man 
has  a  chance  who  offers  to  deal  afresh  on  new  terms 
with  those  daily  needs  which  both  goad  and  fetter  the 
struggling  multitude  at  every  step.  Vegetarianism 
had,  in  fact,  been  spreading  in  Manchester;  one  or 
two  prominent  workmen's  papers  were  preaching  it ; 
and  just  before  Daddy's  advent  there  had  been  a  great 
dinner  in  a  public  hall,  Avhere  the  speedy  advent  of  a 
regenerate  and  frugivorous  mankind,  with  length  of 
days  in  its  right  hand,  and  a  captivating  abundance  of 
small  moneys  in  its  waistcoat  jjocket,  had  been  freely 
and  ardently  prophesied. 

So  Daddy  for  once  seized  the  moment,  and  suc- 
ceeded like  the  veriest  Philistine.  On  the  opening 
day  the  restaurant  was  crowded  from  morning  till 
night.  Dora,  with  her  two  cooks  in  the  suffocating 
kitchen  behind,  had  to  send  out  the  pair  of  panting, 
perspiring  kitchen-boys  again  and  again  for  fresh  sup- 
plies ;  while  Daddy,  at  his  wits'  end  for  waiters,  after 
haranguing  a  group  of  customers  on  the  philosophy  of 
living,  amid  a  tumult  of  mock  cheers  and  laughter, 
would  rush  in  exasperated  to  Dora,  to  say  that  7iever 
again  would  he  trust  her  niggardly  ways — she  would 
be  the  ruin  of  him  with  her  economies. 


CHAP.    IV 


YOUTH 


When  at  night  the  doors  were  shut  at  last  on  the 
noise  and  the  crowd,  and  Daddy  sat,  with  his  full 
cash-box  open  on  his  knee,  while  the  solitary  gaslight 
that  remained  threw  a  fantastic  and  colossal  shadow 
of  him  over  the  rough  floor  of  the  restaurant,  Dora 
came  up  to  him  dropping  with  fatigue.  He  looked  at 
her,  his  gaunt  face  working,  and  burst  into  tears. 

'Dora,  we  never  had  any  money  before,  not  when — 
when — your  mother  was  alive.' 

And  she  knew  that  by  a  strange  reaction  there  had 
come  suddenly  upon  him  the  memory  of  those  ghastly 
months  when  she  and  he  through  the  long  hours  of 
every  day  had  been  forced — baffled  and  helpless — to 
Avatch  her  mother's  torture,  and  when  the  sordid  strug- 
gle for  daily  bread  was  at  its  worst,  robbing  death 
of  all  its  dignity,  and  pity  of  all  its  poAver  to  help. 

Do  what  she  would,  she  could  hardly  get  him  to 
give  up  the  money  and  go  to  bed.  He  was  utterly 
unstrung,  and  his  triumph  for  the  moment  lay  bitter 
in  the  mouth. 

It  was  now  two  years  since  that  opening  day.  Dur- 
ing that  time  the  Parlour  had  become  a  centre  after 
its  sort — a  scandal  to  some  and  a  delight  to  others. 
The  native  youth  got  his  porridge,  and  apple  pie,  and 
baked  potato  there ;  but  the  place  was  also  largely 
haunted  by  the  foreign  clerks  of  Manchester.  There 
was,  for  instance,  a  company  of  young  Frenchmen 
who  lunched  there  habitually,  and  in  whose  society 
the  delighted  Daddy  caught  echoes  from  that  unpreju- 
diced life  of  Paris  or  Lyons,  which  had  amazed  and 
enlightened  his  youth.  The  place  assumed  a  stamp 
and  character.  To  Daddy  the  development  of  his  own 
popularity,  which  Avas  like  the  emergence  of  a  new 
gift,  soon  became  a  passion.  He  deliberately  '  ran ' 
his  own  eccentricities  as  part  of  the  business.     Hence 


276  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

his  dress,  liis  menus,  his  advertisements,  and  all  the 
various  antics  which  half  regaled,  half  scandalised  the 
neighbourhood.  Dora  marvelled  and  winced,  and  by 
dint  of  an  habitual  tolerance  retained  the  power  of 
stopping  some  occasional  enormity. 

As  to  finances,  they  were  not  making  their  fortune ; 
far  from  it ;  but  to  Dora's  amazement,  considering  her 
own  inexperience  and  her  father's  flightiness,  they 
had  paid  their  way  and  something  more.  She  was  no 
born  woman  of  business,  as  any  professional  account- 
ant examining  her  books  might  have  discovered.  But 
she  had  a  passionate  determination  to  defraud  no  one, 
and  somehow,  through  much  toil  her  conscience  did 
the  work.  Meanwhile  every  month  it  astonished  her 
freshly  that  they  two  should  be  succeeding  !  Success 
was  so  little  in  the  tradition  of  their  tattered  and 
variegated  lives.  Could  it  last  ?  At  the  bottom  of 
her  mind  lay  a  constant  presentiment  of  new  change, 
founded  no  doubt  on  her  knowledge  of  her  father. 

But  outwardly  there  was  little  to  justify  it.  The 
craving  for  drink  seemed  to  have  left  him  altogether 
— a  not  uncommon  effect  of  this  particular  change  of 
diet.  And  his  hatred  of  Purcell,  though  in  itself  it 
had  j)roved  quite  unmanageable  by  all  her  arts,  had 
done  nobody  much  harm.  In  a  society  dependent  on 
law  and  police  there  are  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a 
man's  dealing  primitively  with  his  enemy.  There  had 
been  one  or  two  awkward  meetings  between  the  two 
in  the  open  street ;  and  at  the  Parlour,  among  his 
special  intimates,  Daddy  had  elaborated  a  Purcell 
myth  of  a  Pecksniffian  character  which  his  invention 
perpetually  enriched.  On  the  whole,  however,  it  was 
in  his  liking  for  young  Grieve,  originally  a  casual  cus- 
tomer at  the  restaurant,  that  Dora  saw  the  chief 
effects  of  the  feud.  He  had  taken  the  lad  up  eagerly 
as  soon  as  he  had  discovered  both  his  connection  with 


CHAP.    IV 


YOT'TTI  277 


Purcell  and  his  daring  rebellious  temper;  had  backed 
him  up  in  all  his  quarrels  with  his  master;  liad  taken 
him  to  the  Hall  of  Science,  and  introduced  him  to  the 
speakers  there ;  and  had  generally  paraded  him  as  a 
secularist  convert,  snatched  from  the  very  jaws  of  the 
Baptist. 

And  now  ! — now  that  David  was  in  open  opposition, 
attracting  Purcell's  customers,  taking  Purcell's  water, 
Daddy  was  in  a  tumult  of  delight :  wheeling  off  old 
books  of  his  own,  such  as  -The  Journal  of  Theology' 
and  the  'British  Controversialist,'  to  fill  up  David's 
stall,  running  down  whenever  business  was  slack  to 
see  how  the  lad  was  getting  on ;  and  meanwhile  ad- 
vertising him  with  his  usual  extravagance  among  the 
frequenters  of  the  Parlour. 

All  through,  however,  or  rather  since  Miss  Purcell 
had  returned  from  school,  Dora  and  her  little  cousin 
Lucy  had  been  allowed  to  meet.  Lomax  saw  his 
daughter  depart  on  her  visits  to  Half  Street,  in 
silence ;  Purcell,  when  he  first  recognised  her,  hardly 
spoke  to  her.  Dora  believed,  what  was  in  fact  the 
truth,  that  each  regarded  her  as  a  means  of  keeping 
an  eye  on  the  other.  She  conveyed  information  from 
the  hostile  camp — therefore  she  was  let  alone. 


CHAPTER   V 

'  Wiiv — Lucy  !' 

Dora  was  still  bending  over  her  work  when  a  well- 
known  tap  at  the  door  startled  her  meditations. 

Lucy  put  her  head  in,  and,  finding  Dora  alone,  came 
in  with  a  look  of  relief.  Settling  herself  in  a  chair 
opposite  Dora,  she  took  off  her  hat,  smoothed  the  coils 
of  liair  to  which  it  had  been  pinned,  unbuttoned  the 
smart  little  jacket  of  pilot  cloth,  and  threw  back  the  silk 


278  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

handkerchief  inside  ;  and  all  with  a  feverish  haste  and 
irritation  as  though  everything  she  touched  vexed  her. 

'"What's  the  matter,  Lucy?'  said  Dora,  after  a 
little  pause.  At  the  moment  of  Lucy's  entrance  she 
had  been  absorbed  in  a  measurement. 

'Nothing!'  said  Lucy  quickly.  '  Dora,  you've  got 
your  hair  loose  ! ' 

Dora  put  up  her  hand  patiently.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  be  put  to  rights.  It  was  characteristic  at 
once  of  her  dreaminess  and  her  powers  of  self-disci- 
pline that  she  was  fairly  orderly,  though  she  had 
great  difficulty  in  being  so.'  Without  a  constant 
struggle,  she  would  have  had  loose  plaits  and  hanging 
strings  about  her  always.  Lucy's  trimness  was  a 
perpetual  marvel  to  her.  It  was  like  the  contrast 
between  the  soft  indeterminate  lines  of  her  charming 
face  and  Lucy's  small,  sharply  cut  features. 

Lucy,  still  restless,  began  tormenting  the  feather 
in  her  hat. 

'When  are  you  going  to  finish  that,  Dora?'  she 
asked,  nodding  towards  the  frame. 

'  Oh  it  won't  be  very  long  now,'  said  Dora,  putting 
her  head  on  one  side  that  she  might  take  a  general 
survey,  at  once  loving  and  critical,  of  her  work. 

'You  oughtn't  to  sit  so  close  at  it,'  said  Lucy 
decidedly;  'you'll  spoil  your  complexion.' 

'  I've  none  to  spoil.' 

'Oh,  yes,  you  have,  Dora — that's  so  silly  of  you. 
You  aren't  sallow  a  bit.  It's  pretty  to  be  pale  like 
that.  Lots  of  people  say  so — not  quite  so  pale  as  you 
are  sometimes,  perhaps — but  I  know  why  that  is,'  said 
Lucy,  with  a  half-malicious  emphasis. 

A  slight  pink  rose  in  Dora's  cheeks,  but  she  bent 
over  her  frame  and  said  nothing. 

'  Does  your  clergyman  tell  you  to  fast  in  Lent,  Dora 
— who  tells  you  ?  ' 


ciiAT.  V  YOUTH  279 

'  The  Church  I '  replied  Dora,  scandalised  and  look- 
ing up  with  bright  eyes.  '  I  wish  you  understood 
things  a  little  more,  Lucy.' 

*  I  can't,'  said  Lucy,  with  a  pettish  sigh,  '  and  I 
don't  care  twopence  ! ' 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  rickety  chair.  Her 
arm  dropped  over  the  side,  and  she  lay  staring  at  the 
ceiling.  Dora  went  on  with  her  work  in  silence  for  a 
minute,  and  then  looked  up  to  see  a  tear  dropping 
from  Lucy's  cheek  on  to  the  horsehair  covering  of 
the  chair. 

'  Lucy,  what  is  the  matter  ? — 1  knew  there  was 
something  wrong  I ' 

Lucy  sat  up  and  groped  energetically  for  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

'  You  wouldn't  care,'  she  said,  her  lips  quivering — 
'  nobody  cares  I ' 

And,  sinking  down  again,  she  liid  her  face  and 
fairly  burst  out  sobbing.  Dora,  in  alarm,  pushed  aside 
her  frame  and  tried  to  caress  and  console  her.  But 
LiTcy  held  her  off.  and  in  a  second  or  two  was  angrily 
drying  her  e3'es. 

'Oh,  you  can't  do  any  good,  Dora — not  the  least 
good.  It's  father — you  know  well  enough  what  it  is 
— I  shall  never  get  on  with  father  if  I  live  to  be  a 
hundred  I ' 

'  Well,  you  haven't  had  long  to  try  in,'  said  Dora, 
smiling. 

'  Quite  long  enough  to  know,'  replied  Lucy,  drearily. 
'  I  know  I  shall  have  a  horrid  life — I  must.  Nobody 
can  help  it.  Do  you  know  we've  got  another  shop- 
man, Dora  ?  ' 

The  tone  of  childish  scorn  she  threw  into  the  ques- 
tion was  inimitable.  Dora  with  difficulty  kept  from 
laughing. 

•AVeli,  what's  he  like?' 


280  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

^ Like?  He's  like — like  nothing,'  said  Lucy,  whose 
vocabulary  Avas  not  extensive.  '  He's  fat  and  ugly — 
wears  spectacles.  Father  says  he's  a  treasure — to  me 
— and  then  when  they're  in  the  shop  I  hear  him  going 
on  at  him  like  anything  for  being  a  stupid.  And  I 
have  to  give  the  creature  tea  when  father's  away.  He's 
so  shy  he  always  upsets  something.  Mary  Ann  and  I 
have  to  clear  up  after  him  as  though  he  were  a  school- 
child. — And  father  gets  in  a  regular  passion  if  I  ask 
him  about  the  dance — and  there's  a  missionary  tea  next 
week,  and  he's  made  me  take  a  table — and  he  wants 
me  to  teach  in  Sunday  School — and  the  minister's 
wife  has  been  talking  to  him  about  my  dress — and — 
and — Xo,  I  canH  stand  it,  Dora — I  can't  and  I  won't !' 

And  Lucy,  gulping  down  fresh  tears,  sat  intensely 
upright,  and  looked  frowningly  at  Dora  as  though 
defying  her  to  take  the  matter  lightly. 

Dora  was  perplexed.  Deep  in  her  dove-like  soul 
lay  the  fiercest  views  about  Dissent — that  rent  in  the 
seamless  vesture  of  Christ,  as  she  had  learnt  to  con- 
sider it.  Her  mother  had  been  a  Baptist  till  her  death, 
she  herself  till  she  was  grown  up.  But  now  she  had 
all  the  zeal — nay,  even  the  rancour — of  the  convert. 
It  was  one  of  her  inmost  griefs  that  her  own  change 
had  not  come  earlier — before  her  mother's  death. 
Then  perhaps  her  mother,  her  poor — poor — mother, 
might  have  changed  with  her.  It  went  against  her  to 
urge  Lucy  to  make  herself  a  good  Baptist. 

'  It's  no  wonder  Uncle  Tom  want?  you  to  do  what 
he  likes,'  she  said  slowly.  'But  if  you  don't  take  to 
chapel,  Lucy — if  you  want  something  different,  per- 
haps  ' 

'Oh,  I  don't  want  any  church,  thank  you,'  cried 
Lucy,  up  in  arms.  '■  I  don't  w^ant  anybody  ordering- me 
about.  Why  can't  I  go  my  own  way  a  bit,  and  amuse 
myself  as  I  please  ?     It  is  too,  too  bad ! ' 


CHAP.    V 


YOUTH  281 


Dora  did  not  know  what  more  to  say.  She  went  on 
with  lier  work,  thinking  about  it  all.  Suddenly  Lucy 
astonished  her  by  a  question  in  another  voice. 

'  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Grieve's  shop,  Dora?  ' 

Dora  looked  up. 

*  No.  Father's  been  there  a  good  many  times.  He 
says  it's  capital  for  a  beginning  and  he's  sure  to  get 
on  fast.  There's  one  or  two  very  good  sort  of  cus- 
tomers been  coming  lately.  There's  the  Earl  of  Drif- 
field, I  think  it  is — don't  you  remeniber,  Lucy,  it  was 
he  gave  that  lecture  with  the  magic  lantern  at  the  In- 
stitute you  and  I  went  to  last  summer.  He's  a  queer 
sort  of  gentleman.  Well,  he's  been  coming  several 
times  and  giving  orders.  And  there's  some  of  the 
college  gentlemen  ;  oh,  and  a  lot  of  others.  They  all 
seem  to  think  he's  so  clever,  father  says ' 

'  i  know  the  Earl  of  Driffield  quite  well,'  said  Lucy 
loftily.  '  He  used  to  be  always  coming  to  our  place, 
and  I've  tied  up  his  books  for  him  sometimes.  I  don't 
see  what's  the  good  of  being  an  earl — not  to  go  about 
like  that.  And  father  says  he's  got  a  grand  place  near 
Stalybridge  too.  Well,  if  he's  gone  to  Mr.  Grieve, 
father'U  be  just  mad.'  Lucy  pursed  up  her  small 
mouth  with  energy.     Dora  evaded  the  subject. 

'  He  says  when  he's  quite  settled,'  she  resumed  pres- 
ently, *  we're  to  go  and  have  supper  with  him  for  a 
house-warming.' 

Lucy  looked  ready  to  cry  again. 

'He  couldn't  ask  me — of  course  he  couldn't,'  she 
said,  indistinctly.     '  Dora — Dora  ! ' 

'  Well  ?  Oh,  don't  mix  up  my  silks,  Lucy  ;  I  shall 
never  get  them  right  again.' 

Lucy  reluctantly  put  them  down. 

*  Do  you  think,  Dora,  Mr.  Grieve  cares  anything  at 
all  about  me  ? '  she  said  at  last,  hurrying  out  the 
words,  and  looking  Dora  in  the  face,  very  red  and  bold. 


282_  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  ii 

Dora  laughed  outright. 

'  I  knew  you  were  going  to  ask  that ! '  she  said. 
'  Perhaps  I've  been  asking  myself  ! ' 

Lucy  said  nothing,  but  the  tears  dropped  again 
down  her  cheeks  and  on  to  her  small  quivering  hands 
— all  the  woman  awake  in  her. 

Dora  pushed  her  frame  away,  and  put  her  arm 
round  her  cousin,  quite  at  a  loss  what  to  say  for  the 
best. 

Another  woman  would  have  told  Lucy  plumply  that 
she  was  a  little  fool ;  that  in  the  first  place  young 
Grieve  had  never  shown  any  signs  of  making  love  to 
her  at  all ;  and  that,  in  the  second,  if  he  had,  her 
father  would  never  let  her  marry  him  without  a  strug- 
gle Avhich  nobody  could  suppose  Lucy  capable  of  wag- 
ing with  a  man  like  Purcell.  It  was  all  a  silly  fancy, 
the  whim  of  a  green  girl,  which  would  make  her  mis- 
erable for  nothing.  Mrs.  Alderman  Head,  for  in- 
stance, Dora's  chaperon  for  the  Institute  dance,  the 
sensible,  sharp-tongued  wife  of  a  wholesale  stationer 
in  Market  Street,  would  certainly  have  taken  this 
view  of  the  matter,  and  communicated  it  to  Lucy  with 
no  more  demur  than  if  you  had  asked  her,  say,  for  her 
opinion  on  the  proper  season  for  bottling  gooseberries. 
But  Dora,  whose  inmost  being  was  one  tremulous 
surge  of  feeling  and  emotion,  could  not  approach  any 
matter  of  love  and  marriage  without  a  thrill,  without 
a  sense  of  tragedy  almost.  Besides,  like  Lucy,  she 
Avas  very  young  still — just  twenty — and  youth  an- 
swers to  youth. 

'You  know  Uncle  Tom  wouldn't  like  it  a  bit,  Lucy,' 
she  began  in  her  perplexity. 

'1  don't  care!'  cried  Lucy,  passionately.  'Girls 
can't  marry  to  please  their  fathers,  I  should  have  to 
wait,  I  suppose.  I  would  get  my  own  way  somehow. 
But  what's  the  good  of  talking  about  it,  Dora  ?     I'm 


CHAP.    V 


YOUTH  283 


sick  of  thinking  about  it — sick  of  everything.  He'll 
marry  somebody  else — I  know  he  will — and  I  shall 
break  my  heart,  or ' 

'  Marry  somebody  else,  too,'  suggested  Dora  slyly. 

Lucy  drew  herself  angrily  away,  and  had  to  be 
soothed  into  forgiving  her  cousin.  The  child  had,  in 
fact,  thought  and  worried  herself  by  now  into  such  a 
sincere  belief  in  her  own  passion,  that  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  take  it  seriously.  Dora  yielded 
herself  to  Lucy's  tears  and  her  own  tenderness.  She 
sat  pondering. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  said  something  very  different 
from  what  Lucy  expected  her  to  say. 

'  Oh !  if  I  could  get  him  to  go  and  talk  to  Father 
Russell !     He's  so  wonderful  with  young  men.' 

Her  hand  dropped  on  to  her  knee ;  she  looked 
away  from  Lucy  out  of  the  window,  her  sweet  face 
one  longing. 

Lucy  was  startled,  and  somewhat  annoyed.  In  her 
disgust  with  her  father  and  her  anxiety  to  attract 
David's  notice,  she  had  so  entirely  forgotten  his  relig- 
ious delinquencies  that  it  seemed  fussy  and  intrusive 
on  Dora's  part  to  make  so  much  of  them.  She  in- 
stinctively resented,  too,  what  sounded  to  her  like  a 
tone  of  proprietary  interest.  It  was  not  Dora  that 
was  his  friend — it  was  she  I 

'  I  don't  see  what  you  have  to  do  with  his  opinions, 
Dora,'  she  said  stiffly ;  '  he  isn't  rude  to  you  now  as  he 
used  to  be.    Young  men  are  always  wild  a  bit  at  first.' 

And  she  tossed  her  head  with  all  the  worldly  wis- 
dom of  seventeen. 

Dora  sighed  and  was  silent.  She  fell  to  her  work 
again,  while  Lucy  wandered  restlessly  about  the 
room.     Presently  the  child  stopped  short. 

*  Oh !  look  here,  Dora ' 

'  Yes.' 


284  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GEIEVE       book  ii 

'  Do  come  round  with  me  and  look  at  some  spring 
patterns  I've  got.  You  might  just  as  welL  I  know 
you've  been  shaving  your  eyes  out,  and  it's  a  nice  day.' 

Dora  hesitated,  but  finally  consented.  She  had 
been  at  work  for  many  hours  in  hot  rooms,  and  meant 
to  work  a  good  many  more  yet  before  night.  A  break 
would  revive  her,  and  there  was  ample  time  before 
the  three  o'clock  dinner  which  she  and  her  father  took 
together  after  the  midday  rash  of  the  restaurant  was 
over.     So  she  put  on  her  things. 

On  their  way  Dora  looked  into  the  kitchen.  Every- 
thing was  in  full  work.  A  stout,  red-faced  woman 
was  distributing  and  superintending.  On  the  long 
charcoal  stove  which  Daddy  under  old  Barbier's  advice 
had  just  put  up,  on  the  hot  plates  near,  and  the  glow- 
ing range  in  the  background,  innumerable  pans  were 
simmering  and  steaming.  Here  was  a  table  covered 
with  stewed  fruits  ;  there  another  laden  with  round 
vegetable  pies  just  out  of  the  oven — while  a  heap  of 
tomatoes  on  a  third  lent  their  scarlet  to  the  busy 
picture.  Some  rays  of  wintry  sun  had  slipped  in 
through  the  high  windows,  and  were  contending  with 
the  steam  of  the  pies  and  the  smoke  from  the  cooking. 
And  in  front  of  all  on  an  upturned  box  sat  a  pair  of 
Lancashire  lasses,  peeling  apples  at  lightning  speed, 
yet  not  so  fast  but  they  could  laugh  and  chat  the 
while,  their  bright  eyes  wandering  perpetually  through 
the  open  serving  hatches  which  ran  along  one  side  of 
the  room,  to  the  restaurant  stretching  beyond,  with 
its  rows  of  well-filled  tables,  and  its  passing  waitresses 
in  their  white  caps  and  aprons. 

Dora  slipped  in  among  them  in  her  soft  deprecating 
way,  smiling  at  this  one  and  that  till  she  came  to  the 
stout  cook.  There  she  stopped  and  asked  something. 
Lucy,  standing  at  the  door,  saw  the  huge  woman  draw 
a  corner  of  her  apron  across  her  eyes. 


CHAi".    V 


YOUTH  285 


'  What  did  you  want,  Dora  ? '  she  inquired  as  her 
cousin  rejoined  her. 

'  It's  her  poor  boy.  He's  in  the  Infirmary  and  very 
bad.  I'm  sure  they  think  he's  dying.  I  wanted  to 
send  her  there  this  morning  and  do  her  work,  but  she 
wouldn't  go.  There's  no  more  news — but  we  mustn't 
be  long.' 

She  walked  on,  evidently  thinking  with  a  tender 
absorption  of  the  mother  and  son,  while  Luey  was  con- 
scious of  her  usual  impatience  with  all  this  endless 
concern  for  unknown  peojjle,  which  stood  so  much  in 
the  way  of  Dora's  giving  her  full  mind  to  her  cousin's 
affairs. 

Yet,  as  she  knew  well,  Sarah,  the  stout  cook,  had 
been  the  chief  prop  of  the  Parlour  ever  since  it  opened. 
No  other  servant  had  stayed  long  with  Daddy.  He 
Avas  too  fantastic  and  exacting  a  master.  She  had 
stayed — for  Dora's  sake— and,  from  bearing  with  him, 
had  learnt  to  manage  him.  When  she  came  she  brought 
with  her  a  sickly,  overgrown  lad,  the  only  son  of  her 
widowhood,  to  act  as  kitchen-boy.  He  did  his  poor 
best  for  a  while,  his  mother  in  truth  getting  through 
most  of  his  work  as  well  as  her  own,  while  Dora,  who 
had  the  weakness  for  doctoring  inherent  in  all  good 
women,  stuffed  him  with  cod-liver  oil  and  '  strengthen- 
ing mixtures.'  Then  symptoms  of  acute  hip-disease 
showed  themselves,  and  the  lad  was  admitted  to  the 
big  Infirmary  in  Piccadilly.  There  he  had  lain  for 
some  six  or  eight  weeks  now,  toiling  no  more,  fretting 
no  more,  living  on  his  mother's  and  Dora's  visits,  and 
quietly  loosening  one  life-tendril  after  another.  Dur- 
ing all  this  time  Dora  had  thought  of  him,  prayed  for 
him,  taught  him — the  wasted,  piteous  creature. 

When  they   arrived  at  Half  Street,  they  let  them- 
selves in  by  the  side-door,  and  Lucy  hurried  her  cousin 


286  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

into  the  parlour  that  there  might  be  no  meeting  with 
her  father,  with  whom  she  was  on  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable terms. 

The  table  in  the  parlour  was  strewn  with  patterns 
from  several  London  shops.  To  send  for  them,  ex- 
amine them,  and  imagine  what  they  would  look  like 
when  made  up  was  now  Lucy's  chief  occupation.  To 
which  might  be  added  a  little  strumming  on  the  piano, 
a  little  visiting — not  much,  for  she  hated  most  of  her 
father's  friends,  and  was  at  present  too  closely  taken 
up  with  self-pity  and  speculations  as  to  what  David 
Grieve  might  be  doing  to  make  new  ones — and  a  great 
deal  of  ordering  about  of  Mary  Ann. 

Dora  sat  down,  and  Lucy  pounced  on  one  pattern 
after  another,  folding  them  between  her  fingers  and 
explaining  eagerly  how  this  or  that  would  look  if  it 
were  cut  so,  or  trimmed  so. 

'  Oh,  Dora,  look — this  pink  gingham  with  white 
spots  !  Don't  you  think  it's  a  love  ?  And,  you  know, 
pink  always  suits  me,  except  when  it's  a  blue-pink. 
But  you  don't  call  that  a  blue-pink,  do  you  ?  And 
yet  it  isn't  salmon,  certainly — it's  something  between. 

It  ougld  to  suit  me,  but  I  declare '  and  suddenly, 

to  Dora's  dismay,  the  child  flung  down  the  patterns 
she  held  with  a  passionate  vehemence — '  I  declare 
nothing  seems  to  suit  me  now  !  Dora ! ' — in  a  tone  of 
despair — 'Dora!  don't  you  think  I'm  going  off  ?  My 
complexion's  all  dull,  and — and — why  I  might  be 
thirty  1 '  and  running  over  to  the  glass,  draped  in  green 
cut-paper,  which  adorned  the  mantelpiece,  Lucy  stood 
before  it  examining  herself  in  an  agony.  And,  indeed, 
there  was  a  change.  A  touch  of  some  withering  blight 
seemed  to  have  swept  across  the  whole  dainty  face, 
and  taken  the  dewy  freshness  from  the  eyes.  There 
was  fever  in  it — the  fever  of  fret  and  mutiny  and  of 
a  starved  self-love. 


CHAP.  V  YOUTH  287 

Dora  looked  at  her  cousin  with  less  patience  than 
usual — perhaps  because  of  the  inevitable  contrast 
between  Lucy's  posings  and  the  true  heartaches  of  the 
world. 

'  Lucy,  what  nonsense  !  You're  just  a  bit  -worried, 
and  you  make  such  a  lot  of  it.  Why  can't  you  be 
patient  ?  ' 

'  Because  T  can't ! '  said  Lucy,  sombrely,  dropping 
into  a  chair,  and  letting  her  arm  fall  over  the  back. 
'  It's  all  very  well,  Dora.  You  aren't  in  love  with  a 
man  whom  you  never  see,  and  whom  your  father  has 
a  spite  on !  And  you  won't  do  anything  to  help  me 
— you  won't  move  a  finger.  And,  of  course,  you 
might ! ' 

*  What  could  I  do,  Lucy  ?  '  cried  Dora,  exasperated. 
*  I  can't  go  and  ask  young  Grieve  to  marry  you.  I  do 
wish  you'd  try  and  put  him  out  of  your  head,  that  I 
do.  You're  too  young,  and  he's  got  his  business  to 
think  about.  And  while  Uncle  Tom's  like  this,  I  can't 
be  always  putting  myself  forward  to  help  you  meet 
him.  It  would  be  just  the  way  to  make  him  tliink 
something  bad — to  make  him  suspect ' 

'  Well,  and  why  shouldn't  he  suspect  ?  '  said  Lucy, 
obstinately,  her  little  mouth  set  and  hard ;  *  it's  all 
rubbish  about  girls  leaving  it  all  to  the  men.  If  a  girl 
doesn't  show  she  cares  about  a  man,  how's  he  to  know 
— and  when  she  don't  meet  him — and  when  her  father 
keeps  her  shut  up — shanipfid!' 

She  flung  the  word  out  through  her  small,  shut 
teeth,  the  brows  meeting  over  her  flashing  eyes. 

'  Oh  !  it's  shameful,  is  it — eh,  Miss  Purcell  ? '  said 
a  harsh,  mimicking  voice  coming  from  the  dark  pas- 
sage leading  into  the  shop. 

Lucy  sprang  up  in  terror.  There  on  the  steps 
stood  her  father,  bigger,  blacker,  more  formidable  than 
he  had  ever  been  in  the  eyes  of  the  two  startled  girls. 


288  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

All  unknown  to  them,  the  two  doors  whicli  parted 
them  from  the  shop  had  been  slightly  ajar,  and  Pur- 
cell,  catching  their  voices  as  they  came  in,  and  already 
on  the  watch  for  his  daughter,  had  maintained  a 
treacherous  quiet  behind  them.  Now  he  was  entirely 
in  his  element.  He  surveyed  them  both  with  a  dark, 
contemptuous  triumph.  What  fools  women  were  to 
be  sure ! 

As  he  descended  the  two  steps  into  the  parlour  the 
floor  shook  under  his  heavy  tread.  Dora  had  instinc- 
tively thrown  her  arm  round  Lucy,  who  had  begun  to 
cry  hysterically.  She  herself  was  very  pale,  but  after 
the  first  start  she  looked  her  uncle  in  the  face. 

'  Is  it  3'ou  that's  been  teaching  Lucy  these  hemitiful 
sentiments  ? '  said  Purcell,  with  ironical  emphasis, 
stopping  a  yard  from  them  and  pointing  at  Dora, 
'  and  do  you  get  'em  from  St.  Damian's  ?  ' 

Dora  threw  up  her  head,  and  flushed.  '  I  get  noth- 
ing from  St.  Damian's  that  I'm  ashamed  of,'  she  said 
in  a  proud  voice,  '  and  I've  done  nothing  with  Lucy 
that  I'm  ashamed  of.' 

'No,  I  suppose  not,'  said  Purcell  dryly;  <the  devil 
don't  deal  much  in  shame.     It's  a  losing  article.' 

Then  he  looked  at  Lucy,  and  his  expression  sud- 
denly changed.  The  flame  beneath  leapt  to  sight. 
He  caught  her  arm,  dragged  her  out  of  Dora's  hold, 
and  shook  her  as  one  might  shake  a  kitten. 

'Who  were  you  talking  of  just  now?'  he  said  to 
her,  holding  her  by  both  shoulders,  his  eyes  blazing 
down  upon  her. 

Lucy  was  much  too  frightened  to  speak.  She  stood 
staring  back  at  him,  her  breast  heaving  violently. 

Dora  came  forward  in  indignation. 

'  You'll  get  nothing  out  of  her  if  you  treat  her  like 
that,'  she  said,  with  spirit,  '  nor  out  of  me  either.' 

Purcell  recovered  himself  with  difSculty.     He  let 


CHAP.  V  YOUTH  289 

Lucy  go,  and  walking  up  to  tlie  mantelpiece  stood 
there,  leaning  his  arm  upon  it,  and  looking  at  the  girls 
from  under  his  hand. 

'What  do  I  w;uit  to  get  out  of  you  ?  '  he  said,  with 
scorn.  '  As  if  I  didn't  know  already  everything  that's 
in  your  silly  minds  !  1  guessed  already,  and  now  that 
you  have  been  so  obliging  as  to  let  your  secrets  out 
under  my  very  nose — I  knoic!  That  chit  there' — he 
pointed  to  Lucy — all  his  gestures  had  a  certain  theat- 
rical force  and  exaggeration,  springing,  perhaps,  from 
his  habit  of  lay  preaching — '  imagines  she's  going  to 
marry  the  young  infidel  I  gave  the  sack  to  a  while 
ago.  Now  don't  she  ?  Are  you  going  to  say  no  to 
that  ? ' 

His  loud  challenge  pushed  Dora  to  extremities,  and 
it  was  all  left  to  her.     Lucy  was  sobbing  on  the  sofa. 

'  I  don't  know  what  she  imagines,'  said  Dora, 
slowly,  seeking  in  vain  for  words ;  the  whole  situation 
was  so  ridiculous.  '  Are  you  going  to  prevent  her  fall- 
ing in  love  with  the  man  she  chooses  ?  ' 

'Certainly!'  said  Purcell,  with  mocking  emphasis. 
'  Certaiiily — since  she  chooses  wrong.  The  only  con- 
cern of  the  godly  in  these  matters  is  to  see  that  their 
children  are  not  yoked  with  unbelievers.  Whenever 
I  see  that  young  reprobate  in  the  street  now,  I  smell 
the  pit.  And  it'll  not  be  long  before  the  Lord  tumbles 
him  into  it;  there's  an  end  comes  to  such  devil's  fry 
as  that.  Uh,  they  may  prosper  and  thrive,  they  may 
revile  the  children  of  the  Lord,  they  may  lift  up  the 
hoof  against  the  poor  Christian,  but  the  time  comes — 
the  time  comes.'' 

His  solemnity,  at  once  unctuous  and  full  of  vicious 
meaning,  only  irritated  Dora.  IJut  Lucy  raised  her- 
self from  the  sofa,  and  looked  suddenly  round  at  her 
father.  Her  eyes  were  streaming,  her  hair  in  disor- 
der, but  there  was  a  suspicion  and  intelligence  in  her 

VOL.  I  u 


290  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

look  which  seemed  to  give  her  back  self-control.  She 
watched  eagerly  for  what  her  father  might  say  or  do 
next. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  sitting  up  he  walked  over  to 
her  and  took  her  again  by  the  shoulder. 

'Now  look  here/  he  said  to  her,  holding  her  tight, 
'let's  finish  with  this.  That  young  man's  the  Lord's 
enemy — he's  my  enemy — and  I'll  teach  him  a  lesson 
before  I've  done.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
You  understand  this.  If  you  ever  walk  out  of  this 
door  with  him,  you'll  not  walk  back  into  it,  with  him 
or  without  him.  I'd  have  done  with  you,  and  my 
money  'Id  have  done  with  you.  But  there  ' — and  Pur- 
cell  gave  a  little  scornful  laugh,  and  let  her  go  with  a 
push — 'Ae  don't  care  twopence  about  you — I'll  say 
that  for  him.' 

Lucy  flushed  fiercely,  and  getting  up  began  me- 
chanically to  smooth  her  hair  before  the  glass,  with 
wild  tremulous  movements,  will  and  defiance  settling 
on  her  lip,  as  she  looked  at  herself  and  at  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  father. 

'And  as  for  you.  Miss  Lomax,'  said  Purcell  de- 
liberately, standing  opposite  Dora,  '  you've  been  aid- 
ing and  abetting  somehow — I  don't  care  how.  I 
don't  complain.  There  was  nothing  better  to  be  ex- 
pected of  a  girl  with  your  parentage  and  bringing 
up,  and  a  Puseyite  into  the  bargain.  But  I  warn  you 
you'll  go  meddling  here  once  too  often  before  you've 
done.  If  you'll  take  my  advice  you'll  let  other  peo- 
ple's business  alone,  and  mind  your  own.  Them  that 
have  got  Adrian  Lomax  on  their  hands  needn't  go 
]3oaehing  on  their  neighbours  for  something  to  do.' 

He  spoke  with  a  slow,  vindictive  emphasis,  and 
Dora  shrank  and  quivered  as  though  he  had  struck 
her.  Then  by  a  great  effort — the  effort  of  one  who 
had  not  gone  through  a  close  and  tender  training  of 


CHAP.  V  YOUTH  291 

the  soul  for  nothing — she  put  from  her  botli  lier 
anger  and  her  fear. 

'  You're  cruel  to  father,'  she  said,  her  voice  flutter- 
ing ;  '  you  niiglit  be  thinking  sometimes  how  straight 
he's  kept  since  he  took  the  Parlour.  And  I  don't 
believe  young  Grieve  means  any  harm  to  you  or  any- 
body— and  I'm  sure  I  don't.' 

A  sob  rose  in  her  tliroat.  Anybody  less  crassly 
armoured  in  self-love  tlian  Purcell  must  have  been 
touched.     As  for  him,  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

'  I'll  protect  myself,  thank  you,'  he  said  dryly ;  '  and 
I'll  judge  for  myself.  You  can  do  as  you  like,  and 
Lucy  too,  so  long  as  she  takes  the  consequences.  Do 
you  understand,  Lucy  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Lucy,  facing  round  upon  him,  all  tremu- 
lous passion  and  rebellion,  but  she  could  not  meet  his 
fixed,  tyrannical  eye.  Her  own  wavered  and  sank. 
Purcell  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  her  for  a  second  or 
two,  smiled,  and  went. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Lucy  dragged  her  cousin 
to  the  stairs,  and  never  let  her  go  till  Dora  was  safe 
in  her  room  and  the  door  bolted. 

Dora  implored  to  be  released.  How  could  she  stay 
in  her  uncle's  house  after  such  a  scene  ?  and  she  must 
get  home  quickly  anyway,  as  Lucy  knew. 

Lucy  took  no  notice  at  all  of  what  she  was  saying. 

'  Look  here,'  she  said,  breaking  into  the  middle  of 
Dora's  ai)i)eal,  and  speaking  in  an  excited  whisper — 
'he's  going  to  do  him  a  mischief.  I'm  certain  he  is. 
That's  how  he  looks  when  he's  going  to  pay  some  one 
out.  Now,  what's  he  going  to  do  ?  I'll  know  some- 
how— trust  me  ! ' 

She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  arms 
behind  her,  supporting  her,  her  little  feet  beating  each 
other  restlessly — a  hot,  vindictive  anger  speaking  from 
every  feature,  every  movement.     The  pretty  chit  of 


292  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  n 

seventeen  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  Here  was 
every  promise  of  a  wilful  and  obstinate  woman,  with 
more  of  her  father's  stuff  in  her  than  anyone  could 
have  yet  surmised. 

A  pang  rose  in  Dora.  She  rose  impulsively,  and 
throwing  herself  down  by  Lucy,  drew  the  ruffled,  pal- 
pitating creature  into  her  arms. 

'  Oh,  Lucy,  isn't  it  only  because  you're  angry  and 
vexed,  and  because  you  want  to  fight  Uncle  Furcell  ? 
Oh,  don't  go  on  just  for  that!  When  we're — we're 
Christians,  we  mustn't  want  our  own  way — we  must 
give  it  up — ive  must  give  it  up.'  Her  voice  sank  in  a 
burst  of  tears,  and  she  drooped  her  head  on  Lucy's, 
kissing  her  cousin's  brown  hair. 

Lucy  extricated  herself  with  a  movement  of  impa- 
tience. 

'  When  one  loves  anybody,'  she  said,  sitting  very 
upright  and  twisting  her  fingers  together,  '  one  must 
stick  to  him  ! ' 

Dora  started  at  the  word  '  love.'  It  seemed  to  her 
a  profanation.  She  dried  her  eyes,  and  got  up  to  go 
Avithout  another  word. 

'  Well,  Dora,'  said  Lucy,  frowning,  '  and  so  you'll 
do  nothing  for  me — nothing  ? ' 

Dora  stood  a  moment  in  a  troubled  silence.  Then 
she  turned,  and  took  gentle  hold  of  her  cousin. 

'  If  I  get  a  chance,  Lucy,  I'll  try  and  find  out  whether 
he's  thinking  of  marrying  at  all.  And  if  he  isn't — 
and  I'm  sure  he  isn't — will  you  give  it  all  up,  and  try 
and  live  comfortable  with  Uncle  Purcell,  and  think  of 
something  else  ?  ' 

Her  eyes  had  a  tender,  nay  a  passionate  entreaty  in 
them. 

'  No  ! '  said  Lucy  with  energy ;  '  but  I'll  very  likely 
drown  myself  in  the  river  some  fine  night.' 

Dora  still  held  her,  standing  above  her,  and  looking 


CHAP.  V  YOUTH  293 

down  at  her,  trying  hard  to  read  her  true  mind. 
Lucy  bore  it  defiantly  for  a  minute ;  then  suddenly 
two  large  tears  rose.  A  quiver  passed  over  Dora's 
face  ;  she  kissed  her  cousin  quickly,  and  went  towards 
the  door. 

'  And  I'll  find  out  what  father's  going  to  do,  or  my 
name  isn't  what  it  is  ! '  said  the  girl  behind  her,  in  a 
shrill,  shaking  voice,  as  she  closed  the  door. 

Dora  ran  back  to  Market  Place,  filled  with  a  pre- 
sentiment that  she  was  late,  though  the  hand  of  the 
Cathedral  clock  was  still  far  from  three. 

At  the  side  door  stood  a  woman  with  a  shawl  over 
her  head,  looking  distractedly  up  the  street. 

'Oh,  JNliss  Dora!  Miss  Dora!  they've  sent.  He's 
gooin — gooin  quick.  An'  he  keeps  weary  in'  for 
"  mither  an'  Miss  Dora."  ' 

The  powerful  scarred  face  had  the  tremulous  help- 
lessness of  grief.     Dora  took  her  by  the  arm. 

'Let  us  run,  Sarah — at  once.  Oh,  never  mind  the 
work ! ' 

The  two  women  hurried  through  the  crowded  Satur- 
day streets.  But  halfway  up  iVIarket  Street  Sarah 
stopped  short,  looking  round  her  in  an  agony. 

'  Theer's  his  feyther,  Miss  Dora.  Oh,  he  wor  a  bad 
'un  to  me,  but  he  had  alius  a  soft  spot  for  t'  lad.  I'd 
be  reet  glad  to  send  worrud.  He  wor  theer  in  the 
ward,  they  tell't  me,  last  week.' 

Three  years  before  she  had  separated  from  her  hus- 
band, a  sawyer,  by  mutual  consent.  He  was  younger 
than  she,  and  he  had  been  grossly  unfaithful  to  her ; 
she  came  of  a  good  country  stock  and  her  dales  woman's 
self-respect  could  put  up  with  him  no  longer.  But  she 
had  once  been  passionately  in  love  with  him,  and,  as 
she  said,  he  had  been  on  the  whole  kind  to  the  boy. 

'  Where  is  he  ?  '  said  Dora. 


294  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

'At  Mr.  Whitelaw's  yard,  Edgell  Street,  Great 
Ancoats.' 

They  had  just  entered  the  broad  Infirmary  Square. 
Dora,  looking  round  her  in  perplexity,  suddenly  saw 
coming  towards  them  the  tall  figure  of  David  Grieve. 
The  leap  of  the  heart  of  which  she  was  conscious 
through  all  her  preoccupation  startled  her.  But  she 
went  up  to  him  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
David,  swinging  along  as  though  Manchester  belonged 
to  him,  found  himself  arrested  and,  looking  down,  saw 
Dora's  pale  and  agitated  face. 

'  Mr.  Grieve,  will  you  help  me  ?  ' 

She  drew  him  to  the  side  and  explained  as  quickly 
as  she  could.     Sarah  stood  by,  and  threw  in  directions. 

'He'll  be  to  be  found  at  IVfr.  Whitelaw's  yard — 
Edgell  Street — an'  whoever  goos  nam  just  say  to  him, 
"  Sarah  says  to  tha — Wilt  tha  coom,  or  wilt  tha  not 
coom  ? — t'  lad's  deein."  ' 

She  threw  out  the  words  with  a  sombre  simplicity 
and  force,  then,  her  whole  frame  quivering  with,  impa- 
tience, she  crossed  the  road  to  the  Infirmary  without 
waiting  for  Dora. 

'  Can  you  send  some  one  ?  '  said  Dora. 

'  I  will  go  myself  at  once.  I'll  find  the  man  if  he's 
there,  and  bring  him.     You  leave  it  to  me.' 

He  turned  without  more  ado,  broke  into  a  run,  and 
disappeared  round  the  corner  of  Oldham  Street. 

Dora  crossed  to  the  Infirmary,  her  mind  strangely 
divided  for  a  moment  between  the  solemn  image  of 
what  was  coming,  and  the  vibrating  memory  of  some- 
thing just  past. 

But,  once  in  the  great  ward,  pity  and  death  possessed 
her  wholly.  He  knew  them,  the  poor  lad — made,  as 
it  seemed,  two  tremulous  movements, — once,  when  his 
mother's  uncontrollable  crying  passed  into  his  failing 
ear — once  when  Dora's  kiss  was  laid  upon  liis  hollow 


CHAP.  V  YOUTH  205 

temple.  Then  again  lie  lay  unconscious,  drawing 
gently  to  the  end. 

Dora  knelt  beside  liim  praying,  his  mother  on  the 
other  side,  and  the  time  passed.  Then  there  were 
sounds  about  the  bed,  and  looking  up,  Dora  saw  two 
figures  approaching.  In  front  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  stui)i(l,  drink-stained  face.  He  came  awkwardly 
and  unsteadily  up  to  the  bedside,  almost  stumbling 
over  his  wife,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a 
chair  to  support  himself.  He  brought  with  him  an 
overpowering  smell  of  beer,  and  Dora  thought  as  she 
looked  at  him  that  he  had  only  a  very  vague  idea  of 
what  was  going  on.  His  wife  took  no  notice  of  him 
whatever. 

Behind  at  some  little  distance,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
stood  David  Grieve.  Why  did  he  stay  ?  Dora  could 
not  get  him  out  of  her  mind.  Even  in  her  praying 
she  still  saw  the  dark,  handsome  head  and  lithe  figure 
thrown  out  against  the  whiteness  of  the  hospital  walls. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  bed,  and  the 
nurse,  standing  beside  the  boy,  looked  up  and  made  a 
quick  sign  to  the  mother.  What  she  and  Dora  saw 
was  only  a  gesture  as  of  one  settling  for  sleep.  With- 
out struggle  and  without  fear,  the  little  lad  who  had 
never  lived  enough  to  know  the  cost  of  dying,  went 
the  way  of  all  flesh. 

'  They  die  so  easily,  this  sort,'  said  the  nurse  to 
Dora,  as  she  tenderly  closed  the  patient  eyes ;  *  it's 
like  a  plant  that's  never  rooted.' 

A  few  minutes  later  Dora  was  blindly  descending 
the  long  stairs.  The  mother  was  still  beside  her  dead, 
making  arrangements  for  the  burial.  The  father, 
sobered  and  conscious,  had  already  slouched  away. 
But  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Dora,  looking  round,  saw 
that  David  was  just  behind  her. 


296  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

He  came  out  with  her, 

'  He  was  drunk  Avlien  I  found  him,'  he  explained, 
'  he  had  been  drinking  in  the  dinner  hour.  I  had  him 
by  the  arm  all  the  way,  and  thought  I  had  best  bring 
him  straight  in.  And  then — I  had  never  seen  anyone 
die,'  he  said  simply,  a  curious  light  in  his  black  eyes. 

Dora,  still  choked  with  tears,  could  not  speak. 
With  shaking  hands'  she  searched  for  a  bit  of  veil  she 
had  with  her  to  hide  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  But  she 
could  not  find  it. 

'  Don't  go  down  Market  Street,'  he  said,  after  a  shy 
look  at  her.  '  Come  this  way,  there  isn't  such  a 
crowd.' 

And  turning  down  Mosley  Street,  all  the  way  he 
guided  her  through  some  side  streets  where  there 
were  fewer  people  to  stare.  Such  forethought,  such 
gentleness  in  him  were  quite  new  to  her.  She  gradu- 
ally recovered  herself,  feeling  all  the  while  this  young 
sympathetic  presence  at  her  side — dreading  lest  it 
should  desert  her. 

He  meanwhile  was  still  under  the  tremor  and  awe 
of  the  new  experience.  So  this  was  dying !  He 
remembered  'Lias  holding  Margaret's  hand.  '  Deein's 
long — but  Ws  varra,  varra  peaceful.'  Not  always, 
surely  !  There  must  be  vigorous,  tenacious  souls  that 
went  out  with  tempests  and  agonies ;  and  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  pang  of  fear,  feeling  himself  so  young  and 
strong. 

Presently  he  led  her  into  St.  Ann's  Square,  and 
then  they  shook  hands.  He  hurried  off  to  his  busi- 
ness, and  she  remained  standing  a  moment  on  the 
pavement  outside  the  church  which  makes  one  side  of 
the  square.  An  impulse  seized  her — she  turned  and 
went  into  the  church  instead  of  going  home. 

There,  in  one  of  the  old  oak  pews  where  the  little 
tarnished  plates   still   set    forth   the    names  of  their 


CHAP.  VI  YOUTH  297 

eighteenth-century  owners,  she  fell  on  her  knees  and 
v/restled  with  herself  and  God. 

She  was  very  simple,  very  ignorant,  but  religion,  as 
religion  can,  had  dignified  and  refined  all  the  elements 
of  character.  She  said  to  herself  iu  an  agony — that 
he  must  love  her — that  she  had  loved  him  in  truth  all 
along.  And  then  a  great  remorse  came  upon  her — 
the  spiritual  glory  she  had  just  passed  through  closed 
round  her  again.  What  I  she  could  see  the  heaven 
opened — the  Good  Shepherd  stoop  to  take  His  own — 
and  then  come  away  to  feel  nothing  but  this  selfish, 
passionate  craving  ?  Oh,  she  was  ashamed,  she  loathed 
herself ! 

Lucy ! — Lucy  had  no  claim  !  should  have  no  claim  I 
He  did  not  care  for  her. 

Then  again  the  pale  dead  face  would  flash  upon  her 
with  its  submissive  look, — so  much  gratitude  for  so 
little,  and  such  a  tender  ease  in  dying!  And  she 
possessed  by  all  these  bad  and  jealous  feelings,  these 
angry  desires,  fresh  from  such  a  presence  I 

'  Oh !  Lamb  of  God — Lamb  of  God — that  takest  away 
the  sins  of  the  ivorkl ! ' 


CHAPTER   VI 

And  David,  meanwhile,  was  thinking  of  nothing  in 
the  world  but  the  fortunes  of  a  little  shop,  about 
twelve  feet  square,  and  of  the  stall  outside  that 
shop.  The  situation — for  a  hero — is  certainly  one 
of  the  flattest  conceivable.  iSTevertheless  it  has  to  be 
faced. 

If,  however,  one  were  to  say  that  he  had  marked 
none  of  Lucy  Purcell's  advances,  that  would  be  to  deny 
him  eyes  as  well  as  susceptibilities.     He  had,  indeed. 


298  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

said  to  himself  in  a  lordly  wa}-  tliat  Lucy  Purcell  was 
a  regular  little  flirt,  and  was  beginning  those  ways 
early.  But  a  certain  rough  young  modesty,  joined 
with  a  sense  of  humour  at  his  own  expense,  prevented 
him  from  making  any  more  of  it,  and  he  was  no  sooner 
in  his  own  den  watching  for  customers  than  Lucy 
vanished  from  his  mind  altogether.  He  thought  much 
more  of  Purcell  himself,  with  much  vengeful  chuck- 
ling and  speculation. 

As  for  Dora,  he  had  certainly  begun  to  regard  her 
as  a  friend.  She  had  sense  and  experience,  in  spite  of 
her  Ritualism,  whereas  Lucy  in  his  eyes  had  neither. 
So  that  to  run  into  the  Parlour,  after  each  new  day 
was  over,  and  discuss  with  Daddy  and  her  the  ups  and 
downs,  the  fresh  chances  and  prospects  of  his  infant 
business,  was  pleasant  enough.  Daddy  and  he  met  on 
the  common  ground  of  wishing  to  make  the  world 
uncomfortable  for  Purcell ;  while  Dora  supplied  the 
admiring  uncritical  wonder,  in  which,  like  a  warm  en- 
vironment, an  eager  temperament  expands,  and  feels 
itself  under  the  stimulus  more  inventive  and  more 
capable  than  before. 

But  marrying !  The  lad's  careless  good-humoured 
laugh  under  Ancrum's  probings  was  evidence  enough 
of  how  the  land  lay.  Probably  at  the  bottom  of  him, 
if  he  had  examined,  there  lay  the  instinctive  assump- 
tion that  Dora  was  one  of  the  girls  who  are  not  likely 
to  marry.  Men  want  them  for  sisters,  daughters, 
friends — and  then  go  and  fall  in  love  with  some  minx 
that  has  a  way  with  her. 

Besides,  who  could  be  bothered  with  '  gells/  when 
there  was  a  stall  to  be  set  out  and  a  career  to  be  made  ? 
With  that  stall,  indeed,  David  was  truly  in  love. 
How  he  fingered  and  meddled  with  it ! — setting  out 
the  cheap  reprints  it  contained  so  as  to  show  their 
frontispieces,  and  strewing  among  them,  in  an  artful 


CHAP.  VI 


YOUTH  299 


disorder,  a  few  rare  local  pamphlets,  on  which  he  kept 
a  careful  watch,  either  from  the  door  or  from  inside. 
Behind  these,  again,  within  the  glass,  was  a  precious 
shelf,  containing  in  the  middle  of  it  about  a  dozen 
volumes  of  a  kind  dear  to  a  collector's  eye — thin  vol- 
umes in  shabby  boards,  then  just  beginning  to  be 
sought  after — the  first  editions  of  nineteenth-century 
poets.  For  months  past  David  had  been  hoarding  up 
a  few  in  a  corner  of  his  little  lodging,  and  on  his  open- 
ing day  they  decoyed  him  in  at  least  five  inquiring 
souls,  all  of  whom  stayed  to  talk  a  bit.  There  was  a 
'  Queen  Mab,'  and  a  '  Lyrical  Ballads  ; '  an  '  Endymion ; ' 
a  few  Landors  thrown  in,  and  a  '  Bride  of  Abydos  ' — 
this  last  not  of  much  account,  for  its  author  had  the 
indiscretion,  from  the  collector's  point  of  view,  to  be 
famous  from  the  beginning,  and  so  to  flood  the  world 
with  large  editions. 

Round  and  about  these  dainty  morsels  were  built  in 
with  solid  rubbish,  with  Daddy's  'Journals  of  Theol- 
ogy,' '  British  Controversialist,'  and  the  rest.  In  one 
top  corner  lurked  a  few  battered  and  ciit-down  Elzevirs, 
of  no  value  save  to  the  sentiment  of  the  window,  while 
a  good  many  spaces  were  filled  up  with  some  new  and 
attractive  editions  of  standard  books  just  out  of  copy- 
right, contributed,  these  last,  by  the  enterprising  trav- 
eller of  a  popular  firm,  from  whom  David  had  them 
on  commission. 

Inside,  the  shop  was  of  the  roughest :  a  plank  or 
two  on  a  couple  of  trestles  served  for  a  counter,  and 
two  deal  shelves,  put  up  by  David,  ran  along  the  wall 
behind.  The  counter  held  a  few  French  scientific 
books,  very  fresh,  and  '  in  the  movement,'  the  result  of 
certain  inquiries  put  by  old  Barbier  to  a  school  friend 
of  his,  now  professor  at  the  Sorbonne — meant  to  catch 
the  'college  people ; '  while  on  the  other  side  lay  some 
local  histories  of   neighbouring  towns  and  districts, 


300  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

a  sort  of  commodity  always  in  demand  in  a  great 
expanding  city,  where  new  men  have  risen  rapidly 
and  families  are  in  the  making.  For  these  local  books 
the  lad  had  developed  an  astonishing  flair.  He  had  the 
geographical  and  also  the  social  instincts  which  the 
pursnit  of  them  demands. 

On  his  first  day  David  netted  in  all  a  profit  of  seven- 
teen shillings  and  twopence,  and  at  night  he  curled 
himself  up  on  a  mattress  in  the  little  back  kitchen, 
with  an  old  rug  for  covering  and  a  bit  of  fire,  and 
slept  the  sleep  of  liberty. 

In  a  few  days  more  several  of  the  old-established 
book-buyers  of  the  town,  a  more  numerous  body,  per- 
haps, in  Manchester  than  in  other  northern  centres, 
had  found  him  out ;  a  certain  portly  and  wealthy 
lady,  connected  with  one  of  the  old  calico-printing 
families,  a  person  of  character,  who  made  a  hobby  of 
Lancashire  Nonconformity,  had  walked  into  the  shop, 
and  given  the  boyish  owner  of  it  much  good  advice 
and  a  few  orders  ;  the  Earl  of  Driffield  had  looked 
in,  and,  caught  by  the  lures  of  the  stall,  customers  had 
come  from  the  most  unlikely  quarters,  desiring  the 
most  heterogeneous  wares.  The  handsome,  intelligent 
young  fellow,  with  his  out-of-the-way  strains  of  knowl- 
edge, with  his  frank  self-conceit  and  his  equally  frank 
ignorance,  caught  the  fancy  of  those  who  stayed  to 
talk  with  him.  A  certain  number  of  persons  had 
been  already  taken  with  him  in  Purcell's  shop,  and 
were  now  vastly  amused  by  the  lad's  daring  and  the 
ambitious  range  of  his  first  stock. 

As  for  Lord  Driffield,  on  the  first  occasion  when  he 
had  dropped  in  he  had  sat  for  an  hour  at  least,  talk- 
ing and  smoking  cigarettes  across  David's  primitive 
counter. 

This  remarkable  person,  of  whom  Lucy  thought  so 
little,  was  well  known,  and  had  been  well  known,  for 


(.11 A  I'.     \'I 


YOUTH  301 


a  good  many  years,  to  the  booksellers  of  Manchester 
and  Liverpool.  As  soon  us  the  autumn  shooting 
season  began,  Purcell,  for  instance,  remembered  Lord 
Driffield,  and  began  to  put  certain  books  aside  for 
him.  He  possessed  one  of  the  famous  libraries  of 
England,  and  he  not  only  owned  but  read.  Scholars 
all  over  Eurojje  took  toll  both  of  his  books  and  his 
brains.  He  lived  to  collect  and  to  be  consulted. 
There  was  almost  n(jthing  he  did  not  know,  except 
how  to  make  a  book  for  himself.  He  was  so  learned 
that  he  had,  so  to  speak,  worked  through  to  an  extreme 
modesty.  His  friends,  however,  found  nothing  in 
life  so  misleading  as  Lord  Driffield's  diffidence. 

At  the  same  time  rrovidence  had  laid  upon  him  a 
vast  family  estate,  and  an  aristocratic  wife,  married  in 
his  extreme  youth  to  please  his  father.  Lady  Driffield 
had  the  ideas  of  her  caste,  and  when  they  came  to 
their  great  house  near  Staly bridge,  in  the  aiitumn, 
she  insisted  on  a  succession  of  proper  guests,  whu 
would  shoot  the  grouse  in  a  proper  manner,  and  amuse 
her  in  the  evenings.  For,  as  she  had  no  children,  life 
was  often  monotonous,  and  when  she  was  bored  she 
had  a  statel}'  way  of  making  herself  disagreeable  to 
Lord  Driffield.  He  therefore  did  his  best  to  content 
her.  He  received  her  guests,  dined  with  them  in  the 
evenings,  and  despatched  them  to  the  moors  in  the 
morning.  But  between  those  two  functions  he  was 
his  own  master ;  and  on  the  sloppy  November  after- 
noons he  might  as  often  as  not  be  seen  trailing 
about  Manchester  or  Liverpool,  carrying  his  slouching 
shoulders  and  fair  spectacled  face  into  every  book- 
seller's shop,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  or  giving  lec- 
tures, mostly  of  a  geographical  kind,  at  popular  insti- 
tutions— an  occupation  in  which  he  was  not  particu- 
larly effective. 

David  had  served  him,  once  or  twice,  in  Half  Street, 


302  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       hook  h 

and  had  sent  a  special  notice  of  his  start  and  his 
intentions  to  Benet's  Park,  tlie  Driflftekls'  'place.' 
Lord  Driffield's  first  visit  left  him  quivering  with 
excitement,  for  the  earl  had  a  way  of  behaving  as 
though  everybody  else  were  not  only  his  social,  but 
his  intellectual  equal — even  a  lad  of  twenty,  with  his 
business  to  learn.  He  would  sit  pleasantly  smoking 
and  asking  questions — a  benevolent,  shabby  person, 
eager  to  be  informed.  Then,  when  David  had  fallen 
into  the  trap,  and  was  holding  forth — proud,  it  might 
be,  of  certain  bits  of  knowledge  which  no  one  else  in 
Manchester  possessed — Lord  Driffield  would  throw  in 
a  gentle  comment,  and  then  another  and  another,  till 
the  trickle  became  a  stream,  and  the  young  man 
would  fall  blankly  listening,  his  mouth  opening  wider 
and  wider.  When  it  was  over,  and  the  earl,  with 
his  draggled  umbrella,  had  disappeared,  David  sat, 
crouched  on  his  wooden  stool,  consumed  with  hot 
ambition  and  wonder.  How  could  a  man  know  so 
much — and  an  earl,  wdio  didn't  want  it  ?  For  a  few 
hours,  at  any  rate,  his  self-conceit  was  dashed.  He 
realised  dimly  what  it  might  be  to  know  as  the  scholar 
knows.  And  that  night,  when  he  had  shut  the  shut- 
ters, he  vowed  to  himself,  as  he  gathered  his  books 
about  him,  that  five  hours  was  enough  sleep  for  a 
strong  man ;  that  learn  he  must  and  should,  and  that 
some  day  or  other  he  would  hold  his  own,  even  with 
Lord  Driffield. 

How  he  loved  his  evenings — the  paraffin  lamp  glar- 
ing beside  him,  the  crackling  of  the  coal  in  his  own 
fire,  the  book  on  his  knee !  Ancrum  had  kept  his 
promise,  and  was  helping  him  with  his  Greek ;  but 
his  teaching  hardly  kept  pace  with  the  boy's  enthusi- 
asm and  capacity.  The  voracity  with  which  he  worked 
at  his  Thucydides  and  Homer  left  the  lame  minister 
staring  and  sighing.     The  sound  of  the  lines,  the  roll 


CHAP.  VI  YOUTH  303 

of  the  oi's  and  oil's  was  in  David's  ear  all  day,  and  to 
learn  a  dozen  irregular  verbs  in  the  interval  between 
two  customers  was  like  the  gulping  of  a  dainty. 

Meanwhile,  as  he  collected  his  English  poets  he 
read  them.  And  here  was  a  whole  new  world.  For 
in  his  occupation  with  the  Encyclopaedists  he  had 
cared  little  for  jioetry.  The  reaction  against  his 
Metliodist  lit  had  lasted  long,  had  developed  a  certain 
contempt  for  sentiment,  a  certain  love  for  all  sharp, 
dry,  calculable  things,  and  for  the  tone  of  irony  in 
particular.  But  in  such  a  nature  such  a  phase  was 
sure  to  pass,  and  it  was  passing.  Burns,  Byron,  Shel- 
ley, Keats,  Tennyson — now  he  was  making  acquaint- 
ance piecemeal  with  them  all,  as  the  precious  volumes 
turned  up,  which  he  was  soon  able  to  place  with  a  pre- 
cision which  tore  them  too  soon  out  of  his  hands. 
The  Voltairean  temper  in  him  was  melting,  was  pass- 
ing into  something  warmer,  subtler,  and  more  restless. 

But  he  was  not  conscious  of  it.  He  was  as  secular, 
as  cocksure,  as  irritating  as  ever,  when  Ancrum  probed 
him  on  the  subject  of  the  Hall  of  Science  or  the  vari- 
ous Secularist  publications  which  he  supported. 

*  Do  you  call  yourself  an  atheist  now,  David  ? '  said 
Ancrum  one  day,  in  that  cheerful,  half-ironic  tone 
which  the  young  bookseller  resented. 

*I  don't  call  myself  anything,'  said  David,  stoutly. 
'  I'm  all  for  this  world ;  we  can't  know  anything  about 
another.  At  least,  that's  my  opinion,  sir — no  offence 
to  you.' 

'  Oh,  dear  me,  no  offence  !  There  have  been  a  feiv 
philosophers,  you  know,  Davy,  since  Voltaire.  There's 
a  person  called  Kant ;  I  don't  know  anything  about 
him,  but  they  tell  me  he  made  out  a  very  pretty  case, 
on  the  practical  side  anyway,  for  a  God  and  immor- 
tality. And  in  England,  too,  there  have  been  two  or 
three   persons   of   consequence,    you   remember,   like 


304  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  n 

Coleridge  and  Jolm  Henry  Newman,  who  have 
thonght  it  worth  while  to  believe  a  little.  But  you 
don't  .care  about  that  ? ' 

The  lad  stood  silent  a  moment,  his  colour  rising,  his 
fine  lip  curling.     Then  he  burst  out  : 

*  What's  the  good  of  thinking  about  things  by  the 
wrong  end  ?     There's  such  a  lot  to  read  ! ' 

And  with  a  great  stretch  of  all  his  young  frame  he 
fell  back  on  the  catalogue  he  was  looking  through, 
while  Ancrum  went  on  turning  over  a  copy  of  '  The 
Keasoner,'  a  vigorous  Secularist  paper  of  the  day, 
which  he  had  found  on  the  counter,  and  which  had 
suggested  his  question. 

Knowledge — success:  it  was  for  these  that  David 
burned,  and  he  laid  rapid  hands  upon  them.  He  had 
a  splendid  physique,  and  at  this  moment  of  his  youth 
he  strained  it  to  the  utmost.  He  grudged  the  time 
for  sleep  and  meals,  and  on  Saturday  afternoons,  the 
early-closing  day  of  Manchester,  he  would  go  out  to 
country  sales,  or  lay  plans  for  seeing  the  few  consid- 
erable libraries — Lord  Driffield's  among  them — which 
the  neighbouring  districts  possessed.  On  Sunday  he 
read  from  morning  till  night,  and  once  or  twice  his 
assistant  John,  hammering  outside  for  admittance  in 
the  winter  dark,  wakened  tlie  master  of  the  shop  from 
the  rickety  chair  where  he  had  fallen  asleep  over  his 
books  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 

His  assistant !  It  may  well  be  asked  what  a  youth 
of  twenty,  setting  up  on  thirty  pounds  capital  in  a 
small  shop,  wanted  with  an  assistant  before  he  had 
any  business  to  speak  of.     The  story  is  a  curious  one. 

Some  time  in  the  previous  summer  Daddy  had 
opened  a  smoking  and  debating  room  at  the  Parlour, 
by  way  of  keeping  his  clientele  together  and  giving  a 
special  character  to  the  place.  He  had  merely  boarded 
off  a  bit  of  the  original  seed  warehouse,  put  in  some 


CHAP.  VI  YOUTH  306 

rough  tables  and  chairs,  and  a  few  newspapers.  But 
by  a  conjuneticjii  of  circumstances  the  place  liad  taken 
a  Secularist  character,  and  the  weekly  debates  which 
Daddy  inaugurated  were,  for  a  time  at  least,  well 
attended.  Secularism,  like  all  other  forms  of  mental 
energy,  had  lately  been  active  in  Manchester;  there 
had  been  public  discussions  between  ]\Ir.  Holyoake 
and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  as  to  whether  Secularism  were 
necessarily  atheistic  or  no.  Some  of  the  old  news- 
papers of  the  movement,  dating  from  Chartist  daj's, 
had  recently  taken  a  new  lease  of  life ;  and  combined 
with  the  protest  against  theology  was  a  good  deal  of 
co-operative  and  repuV)lican  enthusiasm.  Lomax,  who 
had  been  a  Secularist  and  an  Owenite  for  twenty  years, 
and  who  was  a  republican  to  boot,  threw  himself  into 
the  m^Ue,  and  the  Parlour  debates  during  the  whole 
of  the  autumn  and  winter  of  '69-70  were  full  of  life, 
and  brought  out  a  good  niany  young  speakers,  David 
Grieve  among  them.  Indeed,  David  was  for  a  time 
the  leader  of  the  place,  so  ready  was  his  gift,  so  con- 
fident and  effective  his  personality. 

On  one  occasion  in  October  he  was  holding  forth  on 
'  Science — the  true  Providence  of  Life.'  The  place 
was  crowded.  A  well-known  Independent  had  been 
got  hold  of  to  answer  the  young  Voltairean,  and  David 
was  already  excited,  for  his  audience  was  plying  him 
with  interruptions,  and  taxing  to  the  utmost  a  natural 
debating  power. 

In  the  midst  of  it  a  printer's  devil  from  the  res- 
taurant outside,  a  stout,  stupid-looking  lad,  found  his 
way  in,  and  stood  at  the  door  listening.  The  fine 
classical  head  of  the  speaker,  the  beautiful  voice,  the 
gestures  so  free  and  flowing,  the  fire  and  fervour  of 
the  whole  performance — these  things  left  him  gaping. 

'  Who's  that  ? '  he  ventured  to  inquire  of  a  man 
near  him,  a  calico  salesman,  well  known  in  the  Sal  ford 

VOL.  1  X 


306  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

Conservative  Association,  who  had  come  to  support 
the  Independent  speaker. 

The  man  laughed. 

'■  That's  young  Grieve,  assistant  to  old  Purcell,  Half 

Street.     He  talks  a  d d  lot  of  stuff — blasphemous 

stuff,  too  ;  but  if  somebody'd  take  and  teach  him  and 
send  him  into  Parliament,  some  day  he'd  make  em 
skip,  I  warrant  yo.  I  never-  heard  onybody  frame 
better  for  public  speaking,  and  I've  heard  a  lot.' 

The  printer's  devil  stayed  and  stared  through  the 
debate.  Then,  afterwards,  he  began  to  haunt  the  paths 
of  this  young  Satan,  crept  up  to  him  in  the  news- 
room, skulked  about  him  in  the  restaurant.  At  last 
David  took  notice  of  him,  and  they  made  friends. 

'  Have  you  got  anybody  belonging  to  you  ? '  he 
asked  him,  shortly. 

'  No,'  said  the  boy.  '  Father  died  last  spring ; 
mother  was  took  with  pleurisy  in  November ' 

But  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  he  coughed 
over  them. 

'All  right,'  said  David;  'come  for  a  walk  Sunday 
afternoon  ? ' 

So  a  pretty  constant  companionship  sprang  up  be- 
tween them.  John  Dalby  came  of  a  decent  stock,  and 
was  still,  as  it  were,  under  the  painful  and  stupefying 
surprise  of  those  bereavements  which  had  left  him  an 
orphan.  His  blue  eyes  looked  bewilderment  at  the 
world ;  he  was  bullied  by  the  compositors  he  worked 
under.  Sometimes  he  had  violent  fits  of  animal  spirits, 
but  in  general  he  was  dull  and  silent,  and  no  one  could 
have  guessed  that  he  often  read  poetry  and  cried  him- 
self to  sleep  in  the  garret  where  he  lodged.  Physically 
he  was  a  great,  overgrown  creature,  not,  in  truth, 
much  younger  than  David,  But  while  David  was 
already  the  man,  John  was  altogether  in  the  tadpole- 
stage — a  being  of  large,  ungainly  frame,  at  war  with 


CHAP.    VI 


Y(JUTII  307 


his  own  hands  and  feet,  his  small  eyes  lost  in  his  pink, 
spreading  checks,  his  speech  shy  and  scanty.  Yet, 
sucli  as  he  was,  David  found  a  use  for  him.  Tempera- 
ments of  the  fermenting,  expansive  sort  want  a  listener 
at  the  moment  of  early  maturity,  and  almost  any  two- 
legged  thing  with  the  listener's  gift  will  do.  Daviil 
Avorked  off  much  steam  on  the  Saturday  or  Sunday- 
afternoons,  when  the  two  would  push  out  iuto  the 
country,  walking  some  twenty  miles  or  so  for  the  sheer 
joy  of  movement.  While  the  one  talked  and  declaimed, 
ploughing  his  violent  way  through  the  soil  of  his 
young  thought,  the  other,  fat  and  silent,  puffed  along- 
side, and  each  in  his  own  way  was  happy. 

Just  about  the  time  David  was  dismissed  by  Purcell, 
John's  apprenticeship  came  to  an  end.  When  he  heard 
of  the  renting  of  the  shop  in  Potter  Street,  ho  promptly 
demanded  to  come  as  assistant. 

'  Don't  be  a  fool ! '  said  David,  turning  upon  him ; 
'  what  should  I  want  with  an  assistant  in  that  bit  of  a 
place  ?     And  I  couldn't  pay  you,  besides,  man.' 

'  Don't  mind  that,'  said  John,  stoutly.  '  I'd  like  to 
learn  the  trade.  Perhaps  you'll  set  up  a  printing  busi- 
ness by-and-by.  Lots  of  booksellers  do.  Then  I'll  be 
handy.' 

'  And  how  the  deuce  are  you  going  to  live  ? '  cried 
David,  somewhat  exasperated  by  these  unpractical  pro- 
posals. '  You're  not  exactly  a  grasshopper ; '  and  his 
eye,  half  angry,  half  laughing,  ran  over  John's  plump 
person. 

To  which  John  replied,  undisturbed,  that  he  had 
got  four  pounds  still  of  the  little  hoard  his  mother 
had  left  him,  and,  judging  by  what  David  had  told  him 
of  his  first  months  in  IVIanchester,  he  could  make  that 
last  for  living  a  good  while.  When  he  had  learnt  some- 
thing of  the  business  with  David,  he  would  move  on — 
trust  him. 


308  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

Whereupon  David  told  him  flatly  that  he  wasn't 
going  to  help  him  waste  his  money,  and  sent  him  about 
his  business. 

On  the  very  day,  however,  that  David  opened,  he  was 
busy  in  the  shop,  when  he  saw  John  outside  at  the 
stall,  groaning  under  a  bundle. 

'It's  Mr.  Lomax  ha  s6nt  you  this,'  said  the  lad, 
calmly,  'and  V\\\  to  put  it  up,  and  tell  him  how  your 
stock  looks.' 

The  bundle  contained  Daddy's  contributions  to 
young  Grieve's  window,  which  at  the  moment  were 
very  welcome ;  and  David  in  his  gratitude  instructed 
the  messenger  to  take  back  a  cordial  message.  The 
only  notice  John  took  was  to  lift  up  two  deal  shelves 
that  were  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  shop,  and  to 
ask  where  they  were  to  go. 

And,  say  what  David  would,  he  stuck,  and  would 
not  be  got  rid  of.  With  the  Lancashire  accent  he  had 
also  the  Lancashire  persistence,  and  David  after  a 
while  gave  in,  consented  that  he  should  stay  for  some 
weeks,  at  any  rate,  and  then  set  to  work  to  teach  him, 
in  a  very  impatient  and  intermittent  way.  For  watch- 
ing and  bargaining  at  the  stall,  at  any  rate,  for  fetch- 
ing and  carrying,  and  for  all  that  appertains  to  the 
carrying  and  packing  of  parcels,  John  presently  de- 
veloped a  surprising  energy.  David's  wits  were  there- 
by freed  for  the  higher  matters  of  his  trade,  while 
John  was  beast  of  burden.  The  young  master  could 
work  up  his  catalogues,  study  his  famous  collections, 
make  his  own  bibliographical  notes,  or  run  off  here 
and  there  by  'bus  or  train  in  quest  of  books  for  a  cus- 
tomer; he  could  swallow  down  his  Greek  verbs  or 
puzzle  out  his  French  for  Barbier  in  the  intervals  of 
business ;  the  humbler  matters  of  the  shop  prospered 
none  the  less. 

Meanwhile  both  lads  were  vegetarians  and  teeto- 


CHAP.  VI  YOl'TII  309 

talers ;  both  lived  as  near  as  might  be  on  sixpence  a 
clay ;  and  an  increasing  portion  of  the  ]\ranchester 
world — of  that  world,  at  aii}'  rate,  which  buys  books 
— began,  as  the  weeks  rolled  on,  to  take  interest  in  the 
pair  and  their  venture. 

Christmas  came,  and  David  made  up  his  accounts. 
He  had  turned  over  the  whole  of  his  capital  in  six 
weeks,  had  lived  and  paid  his  rent,  and  was  very 
nearly  ten  pounds  to  the  good.  On  the  evening  when 
he  made  this  out  he  sat  jubilantly  over  the  fire,  think- 
ing of  Louie.  Certainly  it  would  be  soon  time  for  him 
to  send  for  Louie  at  this  rate.  Yet  there  were  jjros 
and  cons.  He  would  have  to  look  after  her  when  she 
did  come,  and  there  would  be  an  end  of  his  first  free- 
dom. And  what  would  she  find  to  do  ?  Silk-weaving 
had  been  decaying  year  by  year  in  Manchester,  and 
for  liand-loom  weaving,  at  any  rate,  there  was  no  open- 
ing at  all. 

No  matter  I  With  his  prosperity  there  came  a 
quickening  of  the  sense  of  kinship,  which  would  not 
let  him  rest.  For  the  first  time  for  many  years  he 
thought  often  of  his  father.  Who  and  what  had  his 
mother  been  ?  Why  had  Lhicle  Reuben  never  spoken 
of  his  parents,  save  that  one  tormented  word  in  the 
dark  ?  Why,  his  father  could  not  have  been  thirty 
when  he  died  I  Some  day  he  would  make  Uncle 
Reuben  tell  all  the  story — he  would  know,  too,  where 
his  father  was  buried. 

"  And  meanwhile,  in  a  few  more  weeks,  he  would 
write  to  Kinder.  He  would  be  good  to  Louie — he 
decidedly  meant  that  she  should  have  a  good  time. 
Perhaps  she  had  grown  out  of  her  tricks  by  now. 
Tom  said  she  was  thought  to  be  uncommon  handsome. 
David  made  a  little  face  as  he  remembered  that.  She 
would  be  all  the  more  difficult  to  manage. 


.310  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

Yet  all  the  time  David  Grieve's  prosperity  was  the 
most  insecure  growth  imaginable. 

One  evening  Lucy  rushed  in  late  to  see  Dora. 

'  Oh,  Dora  I  Dora !  Put  down  your  work  at  once 
and  listen  to  me.' 

Dora  looked  up  in  amazement,  to  see  Lucy's  little 
face  all  crimson  with  excitement  and  resolution. 

'  Dora,  I've  found  it  all  out :  he's  going  to  buy  the 
house  over  Mr.  Grieve's  head,  and  turn  him  into  the 
street,  just  as  he's  got  nicely  settled.  Oh  !  he's  done 
it  before,  I  can  tell  you.  There  was  a  man  higher  up 
Half  Street  he  served  just  the  same.  He's  got  the 
money,  and  he's  got  the  spite.  Well  now,  Dora,  it's' 
no  good  staring.    Has  JVIr.  Grieve  been  up  here  lately?  ' 

'No;  not  lately,'  said  Dora,  with  an  involuntary 
sigh.  'Father's  been  to  see  him.  He  says  he's  that 
bus}^  he  can't  come  out.  But,  Lucy,  how  do  you  knoAV 
all  tliis  ? ' 

AYhereupon,  at  first,  Lucy  wouldn't  tell ;  but  being 
at  bottom  intensely  proud  of  her  own  cleverness  at 
last  confessed.  She  had  been  for  long  convinced  that 
her  father  meant  mischief  to  young  Grieve,  and  had 
been  on  the  Avatch.  A  little  listening  at  doors  here, 
and  a  little  prying  into  papers  there,  had  presently 
given  her  the  clue.  In  a  private  drawer,  unlocked  by 
chance,  she  had  found  a  solicitor's  letter  containing 
the  full  description  of  No.  15  Potter  Street,  and  of 
some  other  old  houses  in  the  same  street,  soon  to  be 
sold  and  rebuilt.  The  description  contained  notes  of 
price  and  date  in  her  father's  hand.  That  very  even- 
ing the  solicitor  in  question  had  come  to  see  her 
father.  She  had  been  sent  upstairs,  but  had  managed 
to  listen  all  the  same.  The  purchase — whatever  it 
was — was  to  be  concluded  '  shortly.'  There  had  been 
much  legal  talk,  and  her  father  had  seemed  in  a  par- 
ticularly good  temper  when  Mr.  Vance  went  away. 


CHAP.  VI  YOUTH  311 

*  Well  now,  look  here,'  said  Lucy,  frowning  and  bit- 
ing her  lips;  'I  shall  just  go  right  on  and  see  him. 
I  thought  I  might  have  found  him  here.  But  there's 
no  time  to  lose.' 

Dora  had  bent  over  her  frame  again,  and  her  face 
was  hidden. 

'  Why,  it's  quite  late,'  she  said,  slowly ;  *  the  shop 
will  be  shut  up  long  ago.' 

^  I  don't  care — 1  don't  care  a  bit,'  cried  Lucy.  '  One 
can't  think  about  what's  proper.  I'm  just  going 
straight  away.' 

And  she  got  up  feverishly,  and  put  on  her  liat 
again. 

'  Why  can't  you  tell  father  and  soud  him  ?  He's 
downstairs  in  the  reading-room,'  said  Dora. 

'I'll  go  myself,  Dora,  thank  you,'  said  Lucy,  with 
an  obstinate  toss  of  her  head,  as  she  stood  before  the 
old  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  '  I  dare  say  you 
think  I'm  a  very  bold  girl.     It  don't  matter.' 

Then  for  a  minute  she  became  absorbed  in  putting 
one  side  of  her  hair  straight.  Dora,  from  behind,  sat 
looking  at  her,  needle  in  hand.  The  gaslight  fell  on 
her  pale,  disturbed  face,  showed  for  an  instant  a  sort 
of  convulsion  pass  across  it  which  Lucy  did  not  see. 
Then  she  dyew  her  hand  along  her  eyes,  with  a  low, 
quivering  breath,  and  went  back  to  her  work. 

As  Lucy  opened  the  door,  however,  a  movement  of 
anxiety,  of  conscience,  rose  in  Dora. 

'  Lucy,  shall  I  go  with  you  ?  ' 

'Oh,  no,'  said  Lucy,  impatiently.  'I  know  what's 
what,  tliank  you,  Dora.  I'll  take  care  of  myself. 
Perhaps  I'll  come  back  and  tell  you  what  he  says.' 

And  she  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Dora  did  not 
move  from  her  Avork ;  but  her  hand  trembled  so  that 
she  made  several  false  stitches  and  had  to  undo  them. 

Meanwhile  Lucy  sped  along  across  Market  Street 


312  THE   III8T0KY  OF  DAVID  GIUEVE       book  ii 

and  through  St.  Ann's  Square.  Her  blood  was  up, 
and  she  could  have  done  anything,  braved  anybody,  to 
defeat  her  lather  and  win  a  smile  from  David  Grieve. 
Yet,  as  she  entered  Potter  Street,  she  began  to  quake 
a  little.  The  street  was  narrow  and  dark.  On  one 
side  the  older  houses  had  been  long  ago  pulled  down 
and  replaced  by  tall  warehouses,  which  at  night  were 
a  black  and  towering  mass,  without  a  light  anywhere. 
The  few  shops  opposite  closed  early,  for  in  the  office 
quarter  of  Manchester  there  is  very  little  doing  after 
office  hours,  when  the  tide  of  life  ebbs  outwards. 

Lucy  looked  for  ISTo.  15,  her  heart  beating  fast. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  first  floor,  but  the  shop-front 
was  altogether  dark.  She  crossed  the  street,  and, 
lifting  a  shaking  hand,  rang  the  bell  of  the  very  nar- 
row side  door. 

Instantly  there  were  sounds  inside — a  step — and 
David  stood  on  the  threshold. 

He  stared  in  amazement  at  his  unwonted  visitor. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Grieve — please — I've  got  something  to  tell 
you.  Oh,  no,  I  won't  come  in — we  can  stand  here, 
please,  out  of  the  wind.  But  father's  going  to  buy 
this  place  over  your  head,  and  I  thought  I'd  better 
come  and  tell  you.  He'll  be  pretty  mad  if  he  thinks 
I've  let  out;  but  I  don't  care.' 

She  was  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  passage, 
and  David  could  just  see  the  defiance  and  agitation  on 
her  face  by  the  light  of  the  gas-lamp  outside. 

He  himself  gave  a  low  whistle. 

'  Well,  that's  rather  strong,  isn't  it.  Miss  Purcell  ?  ' 

'It's  mean — it's  abominable,'  she  cried.  'I  vowed 
I'd  stop  it.  But  I  don't  know  what  he'll  do  to  me — 
kill  me,  most  likely.' 

'Nobody  shall  do  anything  to  you,'  said  David, 
decidedly.  '  You're  a  brick.  But  look  here — can  you 
tell  me  anything  more  ?  ' 


CHAP.  VI  YOUTH  313 

She  commanded  herself  with  great  difRculty,  and 
told  all  she  knew.  David  leant  against  the  wall  be- 
side her,  twisting  a  meditative  lip.  The  situation  w;is 
ominous,  certainly.  He  had  always  known  tliat  his 
tenure  was  precarious,  but  from  various  indications  he 
had  supposed  that  it  would  be  some  years  yet  befoi-e 
his  side  of  the  street  was  much  meddled  with.  That 
old  fox !     He  must  go  and  see  Mr.  Ancrum. 

A  passion  of  hate  and  energy  rose  within  him. 
Somehow  or  other  he  would  pull  through. 

When  Lucy  had  finished  the  tale  of  her  eavesdrop- 
pings,  the  young  fellow  shook  himself  and  stood  erect. 

'  Well,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Purcell.  And 
now  I'll  just  go  straight  off  and  talk  to  somebody  that 
I  think'll  help  me.  But  I'll  see  you  to  Market  Street 
first.' 

*  Oh  ! — somebody  will  see  us  ! '  she  cried  in  a  fever, 
'and  tell  father.' 

'  Not  they  ;  I'll  keep  a  look  out.' 

Then  suddenly,  as  they  walked  along  together,  a 
great  shyness  fell  upon  them  both.  Why  had  she 
done  this  thing,  and  run  the  risk  of  her  father's 
wrath  ?  As  David  walked  beside  her,  he  felt  for  an 
instant,  through  all  his  gratitude,  as  though  some  one 
had  thrown  a  lasso  round  him,  and  the  cord  were 
tightening.  He  could  not  have  explained  the  feeling, 
but  it  made  him  curt  and  restive,  absorbed,  appar- 
ently, in  his  own  thoughts.  Meanwhile  Lucy's'  heart 
swelled  and  swelled.  She  did  think  he  would  have 
taken  her  news  differently — have  made  more  of  it  and 
her.  She  wished  she  had  never  come — she  wished  she 
had  brought  Dora.  The  familiar  consciousness  of 
failure,  of  insignificance,  returned,  and  the  hot  tears 
rose  in  her  eyes. 

At  Market  Street  she  stopped  him  hurriedly. 

'Don't  come  any  farther.     I  can  get  home.' 


314  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

David,  meanwhile,  was  saying  to  himself  that  he 
was  a  churlish  brute ;  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
not  get  out  any  pretty  speeches  worthy  of  the 
occasion. 

'  I'm  sure  I  take  it  most  kind  of  you,  Miss  Purcell. 
There's  nothing  could  have  saved  me  if  you  hadn't 
told.  And  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  get  out  of  it 
now.  But  if  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you,  you 
know ' 

'  Oh,  never  mind  ! — never  mind  ! '  she  said,  incohe- 
rently, stabbed  by  his  constraint.     '  Good-night.' 

And  she  ran  away  into  the  darkness,  choked  by  the 
sorest  tears  she  had  ever  shed. 

David,  meanwhile,  went  on  his  way  to  AncrUm, 
scourging  himself.  If  ever  there  was  an  ungrateful 
cur,  it  Avas  he !  Why  could  he  find  nothing  nice  to 
say  to  that  girl  in  return  for  all  her  pluck?  Of 
course  she  would  get  into  trouble.  Coming  to  see  him 
at  that  time  of  night,  too  I     Why,  it  was  splendid  I 

Yet,  all  the  same,  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  if 
she  had  been  there  beside  him  again,  he  would  have 
been  just  as  tongue-tied  as  before. 


CHAPTER   VII 

On  the  following  night  David  walked  into  the  Parlour 
about  eight  o'clock,  hung  up  his  hat  with  the  air  of  an 
emperor,  and  looked  round  for  Daddy. 

'  Look  here.  Daddy  !  I've  got  something  to  say  to 
you,  but  not  down  here :  you'll  be  letting  out  my  pri- 
vate affairs,  and  I  can't  stand  that.' 

'  Well,  come  upstairs,  then,  you  varmint !  You're 
a  poor  sort  of  fellow,  always  suspecting  your  friends. 
Come  up — come  up  with  you !     I'll  humour  you  ! ' 


CHAP,  vii  YOUTH  315 

And  Daddy,  bursting  with  curiosity,  led  the  way 
upstairs  to  Dora's  sitting-room.  Dora  was  moving 
about  amid  a  mass  of  silks,  which  lay  carefully  spread 
out  on  the  table,  shade  melting  into  shade,  awaiting 
their  transference  to  a  new  silk  case  she  had  been  busy 
upon. 

As  the  door  opened  she  looked  up,  and  when  she 
saw  David  her  face  flushed  all  over. 

Daddy  pushed  the  lad  in. 

'Dora,  he's  got  some  news.     Out  with  it,  sir  ! ' 

And  he  stood  opposite  the  young  fellow,  on  tiptoe, 
quivering  with  impatience. 

David  put  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  looked 
out  upon  them,  radiant. 

'I  think,'  he  said  slowly,  '  I've  scotched  old  Purcell 
this  time.  But  perhaps  you  don't  know  what  he's 
been  after  ? ' 

'Lucy  was  in  here  last  night,'  said  Dora,  hesitating ; 
'  she  told  me  about  it.' 

'  Lucy  ! '  cried  Daddy,  exasperated.  '  What  have  you 
been  making  secrets  about  ?  I'll  have  no  secrets  from 
me  in  this  house,  Dora.  Why,  when  Lucy  tells  you 
something  important,  is  it  all  hidden  up  from  me  ? 
Nasty  close  ways  ! ' 

And  he  looked  at  her  threateningly. 

Nothing  piqued  the  old  Bohemian  so  much  as  the 
constant  assumption  of  the  people  about  him  that  he 
was  a  grown-up  baby,  of  no  discretion  at  all.  That 
the  assumption  was  true  made  no  difference  whatever 
to  the  irritating  quality  of  it. 

Dora  dropped  her  head  a  little,  but  said  nothing. 
David  interposed  : 

'Well,  now  ril  tell  you  all  about  it.' 

Ilis  tone  was  triumph  itself,  and  he  plunged  into 
his  story.  He  described  what  Purcell  had  meant  to 
do,  and  how  nearly  he  had  done  it.     In  a  month,  if 


316  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  n 

the  bookseller  had  had  his  way,  his  young  rival  would 
have  been  in  the  street,  with  all  his  connection  to  make 
over  again.  At  the  moment  there  was  not  another 
corner  to  be  had,  within  David's  means,  anywhere  near 
the  centre  of  the  town.  It  would  have  meant  a  com- 
pletely fresh  beginning,  and  temporary  ruin. 

But  he  had  gone  to  Ancrum.  And  Ancrum  and  he 
had  bethought  them  of  the  rich  Unitarian  gentleman 
who  had  been  David's  sponsor  when  he  signed  his 
agreement. 

There  and  then,  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  Ancrum 
had  gone  off  to  Higher  Broughton,  where  the  good 
man  lived,  and  laid  the  case  before  him.  Mr.  Doyle 
had  taken  the  night  to  think  it  over,  and  the  following 
morning  he  had  paid  a  visit  to  his  lawyer. 

'  He  and  his  wife  thought  it  a  burning  shame,  he 
told  Mr.  Ancrum ;  and,  besides,  he's  been  buying  up 
house  property  in  Manchester  for  some  time  past,  only 
we  couldn't  know  that — that  was  just  luck.  He 
looked  upon  it  as  a  good  chance  both  for  him  and  for 
me.  He  told  his  lawyer  it  must  be  all  settled  in  three 
hours,  and  he  didn't  mind  the  price.  The  lawyer 
found  out  that  Purcell  was  haggling,  went  in  to  win, 
put  the  cash  down,  and  here  in  my  pocket  I've  got  the 
fresh  agreement  between  me  and  Mr.  Doyle — three 
months'  notice  on  either  side,  and  no  likelihood  of  my 
being  turned  out,  if  I  want  to  stay,  for  the  next  three 
or  four  years.     Hurrah  ! ' 

And  the  lad,  quite  beside  himself  with  jubilation, 
raised  the  blue  cap  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  flung  it 
round  his  head.  Dora  stood  and  looked  at  him,  lean- 
ing lightly  against  the  table,  her  arms  behind  her. 
His  triumph  carried  her  away ;  her  lips  parted  in  a 
joyous  smile ;  her  whole  soft,  rounded  figure  trembled 
with  animation  and  sympathy. 

As  for  Daddy,  he  coidd  not  contain  himself.     He 


CHAP.    Til 


YOUTH  317 


ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  sent  a  kitchen-boy 
flying  for  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

'  Drink,  you  varmint,  drink ! '  he  said,  when  the 
liquor  eanic,  '  or  I'll  be  the  death  of  you !  Hold  your 
tongue.  Dura  I  Do  you  think  a  man  can  put  up  with 
temperance  drinks  when  his  enemy's  smitten  hip  and 
thigh  ?  Uh,  you  jewel,  David,  but  you'll  bring  him 
low,  lad — you'll  bring  him  low  before  you've  done- 
promise  me  that.  I  shall  see  him  a  beggar  yet,  lad, 
shan't  I '.'     Oh,  nectar  ! ' 

And  Daddy  poured  down  his  champagne,  apostro- 
phising it  and  David's  vengeance  together. 

Dora  looked  distressed. 

<  Father — Lucy !     How  can  you  say  such  things  ? ' 

•  Lucy— eh  ?— Lucy  ?  She  won't  be  a  beggar. 
She'll  marry  ;  she's  got  a  bit  of  good  looks  of  her  own. 
But,  David,  my  lad,  what  was  it  you  were  saying? 
How  was  it  you  got  wind  of  this  precious  business  ? ' 

David  hesitated. 

'Well,  it  was  Miss  Purcell  told  me,'  he  said.  'She 
came  to  see  me  at  my  place  last  evening.' 

He  drew  himself  together  with  a  little  nervous 
dignity,  as  though  foreseeing  that  Daddy  would  make 
remarks. 

'  Miss  Purcell !— what,  Lucy  ?—Lucy  ?  Upon  my 
word,  Davy !  Why,  her  father'll  wring  her  neck 
when   he   finds    it    out.      And   she    came    to    warn 

you  ?  ' 

Daddy  stood  a  moment  taking  in  the  situation, 
then,  with  a  queer  grin,  he  walked  up  to  David  and 
poked  him  in  the  ribs. 

'So  there  were  passages— eh,  young  man— when 
you  were  up  there  ? ' 

The  young  fellow  straightened  himself,  with  a  look 
of  annoyance. 

'Nothing  of  the  sort.  Daddy;  there  were  no  pas- 


318  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

sages.  But  Miss  Lucy's  done  me  a  real  friendly  act, 
and  I'd  do  the  same  for  her  any  day.' 

Dora  had  sat  down  to  her  silks  again.  As  David 
spoke  she  bent  closely  over  them,  as  though  the  lamp- 
light puzzled  her  usually  quick  perception  of  shade 
and  quality. 

As  for  Daddy,  he  eyed  the  lad  doubtfully. 

'  She's  got  a  pretty  waist  and  a  brown  eye,  Davy, 
and  she's  seventeen.' 

'  She  may  be  for  me,'  said  David,  throwing  his  head 
back  and  speaking  witli  a  certain  emphasis  and  ani- 
mation. 'But  she's  a  little  brick  to  have  given  me 
notice  of  this  thing.' 

The  warmth  of  these  last  words  produced  more 
effect  on  Daddy  than  his  previous  denials. 

'Dora,'  he  said,  looking  round — 'Dora,  do  you  be- 
lieve the  varmint  ?  All  the  same,  you  know,  he'll  be 
for  marrying  soon.  Look  at  him  ! '  and  he  pointed  a 
thin  theatrical  finger  at  David  from  across  the  room. 
'  When  I  was  his  make  I  was  in  love  with  half  the 
girls  in  the  place.  Blue  eyes  here — brown  eyes  there 
— nothing  came  amiss  to  me.' 

'  Marrying ! '  said  David,  with  an  impatient  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  but  flushing  all  over.  '  You  might 
wait,  I  think,  till  I've  got  enough  to  keep  one  on,  let 
alone  two.  If  you  talk  such  stuff.  Daddy,  I'll  not  tell 
you  my  secrets  when  there  are  any  to  tell.' 

He  tried  to  laugh  it  off ;  but  Dora's  grey  eye,  glanc- 
ing timidly  round  at  him,  saw  that  he  was  in  some 
discomfort.  There  was  a  bright  colour  in  her  cheek 
too,  and  her  hand  touched  her  silks  uncertainly. 

'  Thank  you  for  nothing,  sir,'  said  Daddy,  unabashed. 
'  Trust  an  old  hound  like  me  for  scenting  out  what  he 
wants.  But,  go  along  with  you !  I'm  disappointed 
in  you.  The  young  men  nowadays  have  got  no  blood! 
They're   made   of  sawdust   and   brown    paper.     The 


CHAP.  VII  YOUTH  819 

world  was  our  orange,  and  we  sucked  it.  Bedad,  we 
did  !  But  you — cold-blooded  cubs — go  to  the  devil,  I 
tell  you,  and  read  your  Byron  I ' 

And,  striking  an  attitude  which  was  a  boisterous 
reminiscence  of  Macready,  the  old  wanderer  flung  out 
the  lines  : 

'  Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy. 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  Once  more,  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ?  ' 

David  laughed  out.  Daddy  turned  petulantly  away, 
and  looked  out  of  window.  The  night  was  dreary, 
dark,  and  wet. 

'Dora!' 

'Yes,  father.' 

'  Manchester's  a  damned  dull  hole.  I'm  about  tired 
of  it.' 

Dora  started,  and  her  colour  disappeared  in  an 
instant.     She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

'  Father,  you  know  they'll  be  waiting  for  you  down- 
stairs,' she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
'  They  always  say  they  can't  get  on  without  you  on 
debating  nights.' 

'Stuff  and  nonsense  ! '  said  Daddy,  throwing  off  the 
hand.  But  he  looked  mollified.  The  new  readin"-- 
room  was  at  present  his  pet  hobb}- ;  his  interest  in 
the  restaurant  proper  had  dropped  a  good  deal  of  late, 
or  so  Dora's  anxiety  persuaded  her. 

'  It's  quite  true,'  said  David.  '  Go  and  start  'em. 
Daddy,  and  I'll  come  down  soon  and  cut  in.  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  speak  the  roof  off  to-night,  and  I  don't  care 
a  hang  about  what  I  But  first  I've  got  something  to 
say  to  Miss  Dora.     I  want  to  ask  her  a  favour.' 

He  came  forward  smiling.  She  gave  liiin  a  startled 
look,  but  her  eyes — poor  Dora  I — could  not  light  on 
liiiii  now  without  takinir  a  new  briglitncss.     How  well 


o' 


320  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

his  triumph  sat  on   him  !     How   crisply   and   hand- 
somely his  black  hair  curled  above  his  open  brow ! 

'  Move  secrets,'  growled  Daddy. 

'Nothing  of  any  interest,  Daddy.  Miss  Dora  can 
tell  you  all  about  it,  if  she  cares.  Now  go  along ! 
Start  'em  on  the  Bishop  of  Peterborough  and  the 
Secularists.     I've  got  a  lot  to  say  about  that.' 

He  pushed  Daddy  laughingly  to  the  door,  and  came 
back  again  to  where  Dora  was  once  more  grappling 
with  her  silks.  Her  expression  had  changed  again. 
Oh  !  she  had  so  many  things  to  open  to  him,  if  only 
she  could  find  the  courage. 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  a  bit  of  her  embroidery, 
which  la}^  uncovered  beside  her  on  the  frame. 

*  I  say,  that  is  fine  work  ! '  he  said,  wondering.  *  I 
hope  you  get  well  paid  for  it,  Miss  Dora.  You  ought. 
Well,  now,  I  do  want  to  ask  your  advice.  This  busi- 
ness of  the  house  has  set  me  thinking  about  a  lot  of 
things.' 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  other.  He  was 
in  such  a  state  of  nervous  excitement,  Dora  could  see, 
that  he  could  hardly  keep  himself  still. 

'  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  my  sister  ?  No,  I  know 
I  haven't.  I've  kept  it  dark.  But  now  I'm  settled  I 
want  to  have  her  to  live  with  me.  There's  no  one  but 
us  two,  except  the  old  uncle  and  aunt  that  brought  us 
up.  I  must  stick  to  her — and  I  mean  to.  But  she's 
not  like  other  girls.     She's  a  queer  one.' 

He  stopped,  frowning  a  little  as  the  recollections  of 
Louie  rushed  across  him,  seeking  for  words  in  which 
to  draw  her.  And  directly  he  paused,  Dora,  who  had 
dropped  her  silks  again  in  her  sudden  astonishment, 
burst  into  questions.  How  old  was  his  sister  ?  Was 
she  in  Manchester  ?  Had  she  a  trade  ?  Her  soul 
was  full  of  a  warm,  unexpected  joy,  her  manner  was 


CHAP.  VII  YOUTH  321 

eager — receptive.  He  took  up  his  parable  and  told 
the  story  of  his  childhood  and  Louie's  at  the  farm. 
His  black  eye  kindled  as  he  looked  past  Dora  into  the 
past — into  the  bosom  of  the  Scout.  Owing  partly  to 
an  imaginative  gift,  partly  to  his  reading  habit,  wlien 
he  was  stinnilated — when  he  was,,  as  it  were,  talking 
at  large,  trying  to  present  a  subject  as  a  whole,  to 
make  a  picture  of  it — he  rose  into  ways  of  speech 
quite  different  from  those  of  his  class,  and  different 
from  his  own  dialect  of  every  day.  This  latent 
capacity  for  line  expression  was  mostly  drawn  out  at 
this  time  by  his  attempts  at  public  speaking.  But 
to-night,  in  his  excitement,  it  showed  in  his  talk,  and 
Dora  was  bewildered.  Oh,  how  clever  he  was !  He 
talked  like  a  book — just  like  a  book.  She  pushed  her 
chair  back  from  the  silks,  and  sat  absorbed  in  the 
pleasure  of  listening,  environed  too  by  the  happy 
thought  that  he  was  making  a  friend  of  her,  giving 
her — plain,  insignificant,  humble  Dora  Loinax — his 
confidence. 

As  for  him,  the  more  he  talked  the  more  he  enjoyed 
talkincr.  Xever  since  he  came  to  Manchester  had  he 
fallen  into  such  a  moment  of  unburdenment,  of  inti- 
macy, or  something  like  it,  with  any  human  being. 
He  had  talked  to  Ancrum  and  to  John.  But  that  was 
quite  different.  Xo  man  confides  in  a  woman  as  he 
confides  in  a  man.  The  touch  of  difference  of  sex 
gives  charm  and  edge,  even  when,  as  was  the  case 
here,  the  man  has  no  thrill  whatever  in  his  veins,  and 
no  thought  of  love-making  in  his  head. 

'  You  must  have  been  very  fond  of  your  sister,'  Dora 
said  at  last,  tremulously.  '  You  two  all  alone — and  no 
mother.' 

Somehow  the  soft  sentiment  in  her  words  and  tone 
struck  him  suddenly  as  incongruous.  His  expression 
changed. 

VOL.  I  T 


322  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know/  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  laugh, 
not  a  very  bright  one.  '  Don't  you  imagine  I  was  a 
pattern  brother ;  I  was  a  brute  to  her  lots  of  times. 
And  Louie — ah,  well,  you'll  see  for  yourself  what 
she's  like ;  she's  a  queer  customer  sometimes.  And 
now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Miss 
Dora.  You  see,  if  Louie  comes  it  won't  do  for  her  to 
have  no  emj^loyment,  after  she's  had  a  trade  all  day ; 
and  she  won't  take  to  mine — she  can't  abide  books.' 

And  he  explained  to  her  his  perplexities — the 
ebbing  of  the  silk  trade  from  Manchester,  and  so  on. 
He  might  hire  a  loom,  but  Louie  Avould  get  no  work. 
All  trades  have  their  special  channels,  and  keep  to 
them. 

So  it  had  occurred  to  him,  if  Louie  was  willing, 
would  Dora  take  her  as  an  apprentice,  and  teach  her 
the  church  work  ?  He  would  be  quite  ready  to  pay 
for  the  teaching ;  that  would  be  only  fair. 

'  Teach  her  my  work  ! '  cried  Dora,  instinctively 
drawing  back.     '  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  could.' 

He  coloured,  and  misunderstood  her.  In  a  great 
labour-hive  like  Lancashire,  with  its  large  and  small 
industries,  the  native  ear  is  very  familiar  with  the 
jealous  tone  of  the  skilled  worker,  threatened  with 
competition  in  a  narrow  trade. 

'  I  didn't  mean  any  offence,'  he  said,  with  a  little 
stiffness.  '  I  don't  want  to  take  the  bread  out  of  any- 
body's mouth.  If  there  isn't  work  to  be  had,  you've 
only  to  say  so.  Miss  Dora.' 

'  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,'  she  cried,  wounded  in  her 
turn.  'There's  plenty  of  work.  At  the  shop  last 
week  they  didn't  know  what  to  do  for  hands.  If  she 
Avas  clever  at  it,  she'd  get  lots  of  work.     But ' 

She  laid  her  hand  on  her  frame  lovingly,  not  know- 
ing how  to  explain  herself,  her  gentle  brows  knitting 
in  the  effort  of  thought. 


CHAP.   VII 


YOUTH  323 


Her  work  was  so  much  more  to  her  than  ordinary 
work  paid  for  in  ordinary  coin.  Into  these  gorgeous 
altar-cloths,  or  these  delicate  wrappings  for  chalice 
and  paten,  she  stitched  her  heart.  To  work  at  them 
was  prayer.  Jesus,  and  His  Mother,  and  the  Saints  : 
it  was  with  them  she  communed  as  her  stitches  flowed. 
She  sat  in  a  mystic,  a  heavenly  world.  And  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  her  work  made  one  of  its 
chief  charms.  And  now  to  be  asked  to  share  it  with 
a  strange  girl,  who  could  not  love  it  as  she  did,  who 
would  take  it  as  hard  business — never  to  be  alone  any 
more  with  her  little  black  book  and  her  prayers ! 

And  then  she  looked  up,  and  met  a  young  man's 
half-offended  look,  and  a  shy,  proud  eye,  in  which  the 
nascent  friendship  of  hve  minutes  before  seemed  to  be 
sinking  out  of  sight. 

<0h  yes,  I  will,'  she  cried.  'Of  course  I  will.  It 
just  sounded  a  bit  strange  to  me  at  first.  I've  been  so 
used  to  be  alone  always.' 

But  he  demurred  now — wished  stiffly  to  take  back 
his  proposal.  He  did  not  want  to  put  upon  her,  and 
perhaps,  after  all,  Louie  would  have  her  own  notions. 

But  she  could  not  bear  it,  and  as  he  retreated  she 
pressed  forward.  Of  course  there  was  work.  And  it 
would  be  very  good  for  her,  it  would  stir  her  up  to 
take  a  pupil ;  it  was  just  her  old-maidish  ways — it  had 
startled  her  a  bit  at  first. 

And  then,  her  reserve  giving  way  more  and  more 
as  her  emotion  grew,  she  confessed  herself  at  last 
completely. 

'  You  see,  it's  not  just  tvork  to  me,  and  it's  not  the 
money,  though  I  am  glad  enough  for  that ;  but  it's  for 
the  church ;  and  I'd  live  on  a  crust,  and  do  it  for  noth- 
ing, if  I  could  I ' 

She  looked  up  at  him — that  ardent  dream-life  of 
hers  leaping  to  the  eyes,  transforming  the  pale  face. 


324  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GEIEVE      book  ii 

David  sat  silent  and  embarrassed.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  say — how  to  deal  with  this  turn  in  the 
conversation. 

'Oh,  I  know  you  think  I'm  just  foolish,'  she  said, 
sadly,  taking  up  her  needle.  '  You  always  did ;  but  I'll 
take  your  sister — indeed  I  will.' 

'  Perhaps  you'll  turn  her  your  way  of  thinking,'  said 
David,  with  a  little  aAvkward  laugh,  looking  round  for 
his  hat.     'But  Louie  isn't  an  easy  one  to  drive.' 

'  Oh,  you  can't  drive  people  ! '  cried  Dora,  flushing ; 
'  you  can't,  and  you  oughtn't.  But  if  Father  Russell 
talked  to  her  she  might  like  him — and  the  church. 
Oh,  Mr.  Grieve,  won't  you  go  one  Sunday  and  hear 
him — Avon't  you — instead  of ' 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  David  finished 
it  for  her :  '  Instead  of  going  to  the  Hall  of  Science  ? 
Well,  but  you  know.  Miss  Dora,  I  being  what  I  am,  I 
get  more  good  out  of  a  lecture  at  the  Hall  of  Science 
than  I  should  out  of  Father  Eussell.  I  should  be 
quarrelling  with  him  all  the  time,  and  wanting  to 
answer  him.' 

'Oh,  you  couldn't,'  said  Dora  eagerly,  'he's  so 
good,  and  he's  a  learned  man — I'm  sure  he  is.  Mr. 
Foss,  the  curate,  told  me  they  think  he'll  be  a  bishop 
some  day.' 

'  All  the  better  for  him,'  said  David,  unmoved.  '  It 
don't  make  any  difference  to  me.  '  Xo,  Miss  Dora, 
don't  you  fret  yourself  about  me.  Books  are  my 
priests.' 

He  stood  over  her,  his  hands  on  his  sides,  smiling. 

'Oh,  no  ! '  cried  Dora,  involuntarily.  'You  mustn't 
say  that.     Books  can't  bring  us  to  God.' 

'  Xo  more  can  priests,'  he  said,  with  a  sudden  flash 
of  his  dark  eyes,  a  sudden  dryness  of  his  tone.  '  If 
there  is  a  God  to  bring  us  to — prove  me  that  first. 
Miss  Dora.     But  it's  a  shame  to  say  these  things  to 


CHAP.    VII 


YOUTH  325 


you — that  it  is — and  I've  been  worrying  you  a  deal 
too  much  about  my  stupid  affairs.  Good  night.  We'll 
talk  about  Father  Russell  again  another  time.' 

He  ran  downstairs.  Dora  went  back  to  her  frame, 
then  pushed  it  way  again,  ran  eagerly  to  the  window, 
and  pulled  the  blind  aside.  Down  below  in  the  lighted 
street,  now  emptying  fast,  she  saw  the  tall  figure 
emerge,  saw  it  run  down  the  street,  and  across  St. 
Mary's  Gate.  She  watched  it  till  it  disappeared ;  then 
she  put  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  leant  against  the 
window-frame  Aveeping.  Oh,  what  a  sudden  descent 
from  a  moment  of  pure  joy  !  How  had  the  jarring 
note  come  ?  They  had  been  put  wrong  with  each 
other ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  he  would  be  no  more  to 
her  now  than  before.  And  she  had  seemed  to  make 
such  a  leap  forward — to  come  so  near  to  him. 

'  Oh  !  I'll  just  be  good  to  his  sister,'  she  said  to 
herself  drearily,  with  an  ache  at  her  heart  that  was 
agony. 

Then  she  thought  of  him  as  he  had  sat  there  beside 
her;  and  suddenly  in  her  pure  thought  there  rose  a 
vision  of  herself  in  his  arms,  her  head  against  his 
broad  shoulder,  her  hand  stealing  round  his  neck. 
She  moved  from  the  window  and  threw  herself  down 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room,  wrestling  desper- 
ately with  what  seemed  to  her  a  sinful  imagination. 
She  oucrht  not  to  think  of  him  at  all ;  she  loathed  her- 
self.  Father  Russell  would  tell  her  she  was  wicked. 
He  had  no  faith — he  was  a  hardened  unbeliever — and 
she  could  not  make  herself  think  of  that  at  all — could 
not  stop  herself  from  wanting — ivanting  him  for  her 
own,  whatever  happened. 

And  it  was  so  foolish  too,  as  well  as  bad ;  for  he 
hadn't  an  idea  of  falling  in  love  with  anybody — any- 
one could  see  that.  And  she  who  was  not  pretty,  and 
not  a  bit  clever — it  was  so  likely  he  would  take  a 


326  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVIT)  GRIEVE       book  ii 

fancy  to  her  !  Why,  in  a  few  years  he  would  be  a  big 
man,  he  would  have  made  a  fortune,  and  then  he 
could  take  his  pick. 

'  Oh  !  and  Lucy — Lucy  would  hate  me.' 
But  the  thought  of  Lucy,  instead  of  checking  her, 
brought  with  it  again  a  wild  gust  of  jealousy.  It 
was  fiercer  than  before,  the  craving  behind  it  stronger. 
She  sat  up,  forcing  back  her  tears,  her  whole  frame 
tense  and  rigid.  Whatever  happened  he  would  never 
marry  Lucy !  And  who  could  wish  it  ?  Lucy  was 
just  a  little,  vain,  selfish  thing,  and  when  she  found 
David  Grieve  wouldn't  have  her,  she  would  soon  for- 
get him.  The  surging  longing  within  refused,  proudly 
refused,  to  curb  itself — for  Lucy's  sake. 

Then  the  bell  of  St.  Ann's  slowly  began  to  strike 
ten  o'clock.  It  brought  home  to  her  by  association 
one  of  the  evening  hymns  in  the  little  black  book  she 
was  frequently  accustomed  to  croon  to  herself  at  night 
as  she  put  away  her  work : 

O  God  who  canst  not  change  nor  fail, 

Guiding  the  hours  as  they  roll  by, 
Brightening  with  beams  the  morning  pale, 

And  burning  in  the  mid-day  sky  ! 

Quench  thou  the  fires  of  hate  and  strife, 

The  wasting  fever  of  the  heart ; 
From  perils  guard  our  feeble  life, 

And  to  our  souls  thy  peace  impart. 

The  words  flowed  in  upon  her,  but  they  brought  no 
comfort,  only  a  fresh  sense  of  struggle  and  effort. 
Her  Christian  peace  was  gone.  She  felt  herself 
wicked,  faithless,  miserable. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  stormy  night  outside,  David  was 
running  and  leaping  through  the  streets,  flourishing 
his  stick  from  side  to  side  in  cut  and  thrust  with  an 


CHAP,  vii  YOUTH  327 

imaginary  enemy  whenever  the  main  thoroughfares 
were  left  behind,  and  he  found  himself  in  some  dark 
region  of  warehouses,  where  his  steps  echoed,  and  he 
was  king  alike  of  roadway  and  of  pavement. 

The  wind,  a  stormy  north-easter,  had  risen  since  the 
afternoon.  David  fought  with  it,  rejoiced  in  it.  After 
the  little  hot  sitting-room,  the  stinging  freshness,  the 
rough  challenge  of  the  gusts,  were  d<dicious  to  him. 
He  was  overflowing  with  spirits,  with  health,  with 
exultation. 

As  he  thought  of  Purcell  he  could  hardly  keep 
himself  from  shouting  aloud.  If  he  could  only  be 
there  to  see  when  Turcell  learnt  how  he  had  been 
foiled !  And  trust  Daddy  to  spread  a  story  which 
would  certainly  do  Purcell  no  good  !  No,  in  that  di- 
rection he  felt  that  he  was  probably  safe  from  attack 
for  a  long  time  to  come.  Success  beckoned  to  him ; 
his  enemy  was  under  foot ;  his  will  and  his  gifts  had 
the  world  before  them. 

Father  Russell  indeed!  Let  Dora  Lomax  set  him 
on.  His  young  throat  filled  with  contemptuous  laugh- 
ter. As  a  bookseller,  he  knew  what  the  clergy  read, 
what  they  had  to  say  for  themselves.  How  much 
longer  could  it  go  on,  this  solemn  folly  of  Christian 
superstition?  'Just  give  us  a  good  Education  Bill, 
and  we  shall  see  ! ' 

Then,  as  he  fell  thinking  of  his  talk  with  Dora  and 
Lomax,  he  wished  impatiently  that  he  had  been  even 
plainer  with  Daddy  about  Lucy  Purcell.  With  regard 
to  her  he  felt  himself  caught  in  a  tangled  mesh  of 
obligation.  He  must,  somehow,  return  her  the  service 
she  had  done  him.  And  then  all  the  world  would 
think  he  was  making  up  to  her  and  wanted  to  marry 
her.  Meanwhile— in  the  midst  of  real  gratitude,  a 
strong  desire  to  stand  between  her  and  her  father,  and 
much  eager  casting  about  for  some  means  of  paying 


328  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

her  back — his  inner  mind  was  in  reality  pitilessly 
critical  towards  her.  Her  overdone  primness  and 
neatness,  her  fashionable  frocks,  of  which  she  was  so 
conscious,  her  horror  of  things  and  people  that  were 
not  *  nice,'  her  contented  ignorance  and  silly  chatter- 
ing ways — all  these  points  of  manner  and  habit  were 
scored  against  her  in  his  memory.  She  had  become 
less  congenial  to  him  rather  than  more  since  he  knew 
her  first.  All  the  same,  she  was  a  little  brick,  and  he 
would  have  liked  one  minute  to  kiss  her  for  her  pluck, 
make  her  some  lordly  present,  and  the  next — never  to 
see  her  again  ! 

In  reality  his  mind  at  this  moment  was  filling  with 
romantic  images  and  ideals  totally  remote  from  an}'- 
thing  suggested  by  his  own  everyday  life.  A  few 
weeks  before,  old  Barbier,  his  French  master,  had  for 
the  first  time  lent  him  some  novels  of  George  Sand's. 
David  had  carried  them  off,  had  been  enchanted  to 
find  that  he  could  now  read  them  with  ease  and 
rapidity,  and  had  plunged  straightway  into  the  new 
Avorld  thus  opened  to  him  with  indescribable  zest  and 
passion.  His  Greek  had  been  neglected,  his  science 
laid  aside.  Night  after  night  he  had  been  living  with 
Valentine,  with  Consuelo,  Avith  Caroline  in  'Le  Mar- 
quis de  Villemer.'  His  poetical  reading  of  the  winter 
had  prepared  the  way  for  what  was  practically  his 
first  introduction  to  the  modern  literature  of  passion. 
The  stimulating  novelty  and  foreignuess  of  it  was 
stirring  all  his  blood.  George  Sand's  problems,  her 
situations,  her  treatment  of  the  great  questions  of  sex,' 
her  social  and  religious  enthusiasms — these  things 
were  for  the  moment  a  new  gospel  to  this  provincial 
self-taught  lad,  as  they  had  been  forty  years  before  to 
the  youth  of  1830.  Under  the  vitalising  touch  of 
them  the  man  was  fast  developing  out  of  the  boy ;  the 
currents  of  the  nature  were  setting  in  fresh  directions. 


CHAP.    VII 


YOUTH  320 


And  in  such  a  mood,  and  with  such  preoccupations, 
how  was  one  to  bear  patiently  with  foolish,  friendly 
fingers,  or  with  uncomfortable  thoughts  of  your 
own,  pointing  you  to  Lacij  rarcell  /  With  the  great 
marriage-night  scene  from  '  Valentine '  thrilling  in 
your  mind,  how  was  it  possible  to  think  of  the  prim 
self-conceit,  the  pettish  tem[)er  and  mincing  airs  of 
that  little  person  in  Half  Street  without  irritation? 

No,  no!  The  Hnknown,  the  unforeseen!  The  young 
man  plunged  through  the  rising  storm,  and  through 
the  sleety  rain,  which  had  begun  to  beat  upon  him, 
with  face  and  eyes  uplifted  to  the  night.  It  was  as 
though  he  searched  the  darkness  for  some  form  which, 
even  as  he  looked,  began  to  take  vague  and  luminous 
shape  there. 

Next  morning  Daddy,  in  his  exultation,  behaved 
himself  with  some  grossness  towards  his  enemy.  About 
eleven  o'clock  he  became  restless,  and  began  patrolling 
Market  Place,  passing  every  now  and  then  up  the 
steps  into  the  narrow  passage  of  Half  Street,  and  so 
round  by  the  cathedral  and  home.  He  had  no  definite 
purpose,  but  'have  a  squint  at  Tom,'  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, he  must,  some  way  or  other. 

And,  sure  enough,  as  he  was  coming  back  through 
Half  Street  on  one  of  his  rounds,  and  Avas  within  a  few 
yards  of  Purcell's  window,  the  bookseller  came  out 
Avith  his  face  set  in  Daddy's  direction.  Purcell,  Avhose 
countenance,  so  far  as  Daddy  could  see  at  first  sight, 
was  at  its  blackest  and  sourest,  and  whose  eyes  were 
on  the  ground,  did  not  at  once  perceive  his  adversary, 
and  came  stem  on. 

The  moment  was  irresistible.  Laying  his  thumbs 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  standing  so  as  to  bar  his 
brother-in-law's  path.  Daddy  launched  a  few  unctuous 
words  in  his  smoothest  voice. 


330  THE  HISTOKY  OF  DAVID  GKIEVE       book  ii 

'  Tom,  me  boy,  thou  hast  imagined  a  device  which 
thou  wast  not  able  to  perform.  But  the  Lord,  Tom, 
hath  made  thee  turn  thy  back.  And  they  of  th}^  own 
household,  Tom,  have  lifted  up  the  heel  against  thee.' 

Purcell,  strong,  dark-browed  fellow  that  he  was, 
wavered  and  blenched  for  a  moment  under  the  sur- 
prise of  this  audacious  attack.  Then  with  an  oath  he 
put  out  his  hand,  seized  Daddy's  thin  shoulder,  flung 
him  violently  round,  and  })assed  him. 

*  Speak  to  me  again  in  the  street,  you  scoundrel, 
and  I'll  give  you  in  charge  ! '  he  threw  behind  him,  as 
he  strode  on  just  in  time  to  avoid  a  flight  of  street- 
arabs,  who  had  seen  the  scuffle  from  a  distance  and 
Avere  bearing  down  eagerly  upon  him. 

Daddy  went  home  in  the  highest  spirits,  stepping 
jauntily  along  like  a  man  who  has  fulfilled  a  mission. 
But  when  he  came  to  boast  himself  to  Dora,  he  found 
to  his  chagrin  that  he  had  only  earned  a  scolding. 
Dora  flushed  up,  her  soft  eyes  all  aflame. 

'You've  done  nothing  but  mischief,  father,'  said 
Dora,  bitterly.  '  How  could  you  say  such  things  ? 
You  might  have  left  Uncle  Tom  to  find  out  for  him- 
self about  Lucy.  He'll  be  mad  enough  without  your 
stirring  him  up.  Now  he'll  forbid  her  to  come  here, 
or  see  me  at  all.  I  don't  know  what  '11  become  of  that 
child ;  and  whatever  possessed  you  to  go  aggravating 
him  Avorse  and  worse  I  can't  think.' 

Daddy  blinked  under  this,  but  soon  recovered  him- 
self. No  one,  he  vowed,  could  be  expected  to  put  up 
for  ever  Avith  Purcell's  mean  tricks.  He  had  held  his 
tongue  for  tAventy-one  years,  and  noAv  he  had  paid 
back  one  little  text  in  exchange  for  the  hundreds  Avhere- 
Avith  Purcell  had  been  Avont  to  break  his  bones  for 
him  in  past  days.  As  for  Dora,  she  hadn't  the  spirit 
of  a  fly. 

'  Well,  I  dare  say  I  am  afraid/  said  Dora,  despond- 


riiAr.  rii  YOUTH  331 

ently.  'I  saw  Uncle  Tom  yesterrlay,  too,  and  he 
gave  me  a  look  made  me  feel  eold  down  my  back.  I 
don't  like  anybody  to  hate  us  like  that,  father.  Wlio 
knows ' 

A  tremor  ran  through  her.  She  gave  her  father  a 
piteous,  childish  look.  She  had  the  timidity,  the  lack 
of  self-confidence  which  seems  to  cling  through  life  to 
those  wlio  have  been  at  a  disadvantage  with  the  world 
in  their  childhood  and  youth.  The  anger  of  a  man  like 
Purcell  terrilied  her,  lay  like  a  nightmare  on  a  sensitive 
and  introspective  nature. 

'Pish  ! '  said  Daddy,  contemptuously ;  '  I  should  like 
to  know  what  liarm  he  can  do  us,  now  that  I've  turned 

so  d d  respectable.     Though  it  is  a  bit  hard  on  a 

man  to  have  to  keep  so  in  order  to  spite  his  brother- 
in-law.' 

Dora  laughed  and  sighed.  She  came  up  to  her 
father's  chair,  put  his  hair  straight,  re-tied  his  tie,  and 
then  kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

'Father,  you're  not  getting  tired  of  the  Parlour?' 
she  said,  unsteadily.  He  evaded  her  downward  look, 
and  tried  to  shake  her  off. 

'  Don't  I  slave  for  vou  from  morninsc  till  ni^ht,  vou 
thankless  chit,  you  ?  And  dun't  you  begrudge  me  all 
the  little  amusements  which  turn  the  tradesman  into 
the  man  and  sweeten  the  pill  of  bondage — eh,  you 
poor-souled  thing  ? ' 

Her  eyes,  however,  drew  his  after  them,  whether  he 
would  or  no,  and  they  surveyed  each  otlier — he  uneasily 
hostile  ;  she  sad.  She  slowly  shook  her  head,  and  he 
perfectly  undei-stood  what  was  in  her  mind,  though  she 
did  not  speak.  He  had  been  extremely  slack  at  busi- 
ness lately ;  the  month's  accounts  made  iip  that  morn- 
ing had  been  unusually  disappointing;  and  twice  dur- 
ing the  last  ten  days  Dora  had  sat  up  till  midnight  to 
let  her  father  in,  and  had  tried  with  all  the  energy  of 


332  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  n 

a  sinking  heart  to  persuade  herself  that  it  was  accident, 
and  that  he  was  only  excited,  and  not  drunk. 

Now,  as  she  stood  looking  at  him,  suddenly  all  the 
horror  of  those  long-past  days  came  back  upon  her, 
thrown  up  against  the  peace  of  the  last  few  years. 
She  locked  her  liands  round  his  neck  with  a  vehement 
pathetic  gesture. 

'  Father,  be  good  to  me !  don't  let  bad  people  take 
you  away  from  me — don't,  father — you're  all  I  have — 
all  I  ever  shall  have.' 

Daddy's  green  eyes  wavered  again  uncomfortably. 

'Stuff!'  he  said,  irritably.  'You'll  get  a  husband 
directly,  and  think  no  more  of  me  than  other  girls  do 
when  the  marrying  fit  takes  'em.  What  are  you  grin- 
ning at  now,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  ' 

For  she  was  smiling — a  light  tremulous  smile  which 
puzzled  him. 

'  At  you,  father.  You'll  have  to  keep  me  whether 
you  like  it  or  no.     For  I'm  not  a  marrying  sort.' 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  defiance,  her  lip 
twitching. 

'  Oh,  we  know  all  about  that  ! '  said  Daddy,  im- 
patiently, adding  in  a  mincing  voice,  ' "  I  will  not 
love;  if  I  do  hang  me:  i'  faith  I  Avill  not."  No,  my 
pretty  dear,  not  till  the  "wimpled,  winning,  pur-blind, 
wayward  boy  "  comes  this  road — oh,  no,  not  till  next 
time !     Quite  so.' 

She  let  him  rail,  and  said  nothing.  She  sat  down 
to  her  work ;  he  faced  round  upon  her  suddenly,  and 
said,  frowning  : 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  it,  eh  ?  You're  as  good- 
looking  as  anybody ! ' 

'  Well,  I  want  you  to  think  it.  father,'  she  said, 
affectionately,  raising  her  eyes  to  his.  A  mother  must 
have  seen  the  shrinking,  sadness  beneath  the  smile. 
What  Daddy  saw  was  simply  a  rounded  girlish  face, 


CHAP.  VII  YOUTH  333 

with  soft  cheeks  and  lips  which  seemed  to  him  made 
for  kissing ;  nothing  to  set  the  Thames  ou  tire,  per- 
haps, but  why  shouhl  she  run  herself  down  ?  It 
annoyed  him,  touched  his  vanity. 

'Oh,  I  dare  say  I '  he  said  to  her,  roughly,  with  an 
affected  brutality.  '  But  you'll  be  precious  disap- 
I)ointed  if  some  one  else  doesn't  think  so  too.  Don't 
tell  me  ! ' 

She  bent  over  her  frame  without  speaking.  lUit 
her  heart  filled  with  bitterness,  and  a  kind  of  revolt 
against  her  life. 

Meanwhile  her  conscience  accused  her  about  Lucy. 
Lucy  must  have  got  herself  into  trouble  at  liome,  that 
she  was  sure  of.  And  it  was  unlike  her  to  keep  it  to 
herself — not  to  come  and  complain. 

Some  days — a  week — passed.  But  Dora  dared  not 
venture  herself  into  her  uncle's  house  after  Daddy's 
escapade,  and  she  was,  besides,  nuich  pressed  with  her 
work.  A  whole  set  of  altar  furniture  for  a  new  church 
at  Blackburn  had  to  be  finished  by  a  given  day. 

The  affairs  of  the  Parlour  troubled  her,  and  she  got 
up  long  before  it  was  light  to  keep  the  l)ooks  in  order 
and  to  plan  for  the  day.  Daddy  had  no  head  for  fig- 
ures, and  he  seemed  to  her  to  be  growing  careless 
about  expenses.  Her  timid,  over-anxious  mind  con- 
jured up  the  vision  of  a  slowly  rising  tide  of  debt,  and 
it  haunted  her  all  day.  When  she  went  to  her  frame 
she  was  already  tired  out,  and  yet  there  she  sat  over 
it  hour  after  hour. 

Daddy  was  blind.  But  Sarah,  the  stout  cook,  who 
worshipped  her,  knew  well  enough  that  she  was  grow- 
ing thin  and  white. 

*If  yo  doan't  draw  in  yo'U  jest  do  yorsel  a  mischief,' 
she  said  to  her,  angrily.  'Yo're  nowt  but  a  midge 
onyways,  and  a  body  '11  soon  be  able  to  see  through  yo.' 


334  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

*I  shall  be  all  riglit,  Sarah/  Dora  would  say. 

'Aye,  we'st  aw  on  us  be  aw  reet  in  our  coffius/ 
returned  the  irate  Sarali.  Then,  melting  into  affec- 
tion, 'Neaw,  honey,  be  raysonable,  an'  I'st  just  run 
round  t'  corner,  an'  cook  you  up  a  bit  o'  meat  for  your 
supper.  Yo  git  no  strength  eawt  i'  them  messin 
things  yo  eat.     Theer's  nowt  but  wind  in  em.' 

But  not  eveii  the  heterodox  diet  with  which,  every 
now  and  then,  Dora  for  peace'  sake  allowed  herself  to 
be  fed,  behind  Daddy's  back,  put  any  colour  into  her 
cheeks.  She  went  heavily  in  these  days,  and  the 
singularly  young  and  childish  look  which  she  had 
kept  till  now  went  into  gradual  eclipse. 

David  Grieve  dropped  in  once  or  twice  during  the 
week  to  laugh  and  gossip  about  Purcell  with  Daddy. 
Thanks  to  Daddy's  tongue,  the  bookseller's  plot 
against  his  boy  rival  was  already  known  to  a  large 
circle  of  persons,  and  was  likely  to  cost  him  cus- 
tomers. 

Whenever  she  heard  the  young  full  voice  below  or 
on  the  stairs,  Dora  would,  as  it  were,  draw  herself 
together — stand  on  her  defence.  Sometimes  she  asked 
him  eagerly  about  his  sister.  Had  he  written  ?  No ; 
he  thought  he  would  still  wait  a  week  or  two.  Ah, 
well,  he  must  let  her  know. 

And,  on  the  whole,  she  was  glad  when  he  went, 
glad  to  get  to  bed  and  sleep.  Being  no  sentimental 
heroine,  she  was  prosaically  thankful  that  she  kept 
her  sleep.  Otherwise  she  must  have  fallen  ill,  and 
the  accounts  would  have  gone  wrong. 

At  last  one  evening  came  a  pencil  note  from  Lucy, 
in  these  terms : 

'  You  may  come  and  see  me,  father  says.  I've  been 
ill. — Lucy.' 

In  a  panic  Dora  put  on  her  things  and  ran.  Mary 
Ann,  the  little  hunted  maid,  let  her  in,  looking  more 


CHAP.    VII 


YOUTH  335 


hunted  and  scared  than  usual.  IMiss  Lucy  was  better, 
she  said,  but  she  had  been  •  tevr  ble  bad.'  No,  she 
didn't  know  what  it  was  took  her.  Tliey'd  got  a  nurse 
for  her  two  nights,  and  she,  :\lary  Ann,  had  been  run 
off  her  h^gs. 

'  Why  didn't  you  send  for  nie  ?  '  cried  Dora,  anil 
hurried  up  to  the  attic.     Turcell  did  not  appear, 

Lucy  was  waiting  for  lier,  looking  out  eagerly  from 
a  bank  of  pillows. 

Dora  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  which  was 
almost  a  cry.  She  could  not  have  believed  that  any- 
one could  have  changed  so  in  ten  days.  Evidently  the 
acute  stage — whatever  had  been  the  illness — was  past. 
There  was  already  a  look  of  convalescence  in  the  white 
face,  with  its  black-rimmed  eyes  and  peeling  lips.  But 
the  loss  of  flesh  was  extraordinary  for  so  short  a  time. 
The  small  face  was  so  thinned  and  blanched  that  the 
tangled  masses  of  golden-brown  hair  in  which  it  was 
framed  seemed  ridiculously  out  of  proportion  to  it ; 
the  liand  playiug  with  some  grapes  on  the  counterpane 
was  of  a  ghostly  lightness. 

Dora  was  shocked  almost  beyond  speaking.  She 
stood  holding  Lucy's  hand,  and  Lucy  looked  up  at  her, 
evidently  enjoying  her  consternation,  for  a  smile 
danced  in  her  hollow  eyes. 

'  Lucy,  tohy  didn't  you  send  for  me  ? ' 

'  Because  I  was  so  feverish  at  first.  I  was  all  light- 
headed, and  didn't  know  where  I  was  ;  and  then  I  was 
so  weak  I  didn't  care  about  anything,'  said  Lucy,  in  a 
small  thread  of  a  voice. 

'  What  was  it  ?  ' 

'  Congestion  of  the  lungs,'  said  the  girl,  with  pride. 
'  They  just  stopped  it,  or  you'd  be  laying  me  out  now, 
Dora.  Dr.  Alford  told  father  I  was  dreadful  run-down 
or  I'd  never  have  taken  it.  I'm  to  go  to  Hastings. 
Father's  got  a  cousin  there  that  lets  lodgings.' 


336  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

•  Hut  liow  did  you  get  so  ill,  Lucy  ? ' 
Lucy  was  silent  a  bit.     Then  she  said : 
'  Sit  down  close  here.     M}^  voice  is  so  bad  still.' 
Dora  sat  close  to  her  pillow,  and  bent  over,  stroking 
her  hands  with  emotion.     The  fright  of  her  entrance 
was  still  upon  her. 

'Well,  you  know,'  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
'  father  found  out  about  me  and  Mr.  Grieve — I  don't 
know  how,  but  it  was  one  morning.  I  was  sitting  in 
here,  and  he  came  in  all  white,  with  his  eyes  glaring. 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  kill  me,  and  I  was  that 
frightened,  I  watched  my  chance,  and  ran  out  of  the 
door  and  along  into  Mill  Gate  as  fast  as  I  could  to  get 
away  from  him  ;  and  then  I  thought  I  saw  him  coming 
after  me,  and  I  ran  on  across  the  bridge  and  up  Chapel 
Street  a  long,  long  way.  I  was  in  a  terrible  fright, 
and  mad  with  him  besides.  I  declared  to  myself  I'd 
never  come  back  here.  Well,  it  was  pouring  with 
rain,  and  I  got  wet  through.  Then  I  didn't  know  where 
to  go,  and  what  do  you  think  I  did  ?  I  just  got  into 
the  Broughton  tram,  and  rode  up  and  down  all  day!  I 
had  a  shilling  or  two  in  my  pocket,  and  I  waited  and 
dodged  a  bit  at  either  end,  so  the  conductor  shouldn't 
find  out.  And  that  was  what  did  it — sitting  in  my 
wet  things  all  day.  I  didn't  think  anything  about 
dinner,  I  Avas  that  mad.  But  Avhen  it  got  dark,  I 
thought  of  that  girl — you  know  her,  too — Minnie  Park, 
that  lives  with  her  brother  and  sells  fents,  up  Cannon 
Gate.  And  somehow  I  dragged  up  there — I  thought 
I'd  ask  her  to  take  me  in.  And  what  happened  I 
don't  rightly  know.  I  suppose  I  was  took  with  a 
faint  before  I  could  explain  anything,  for  I  was 
shivering  and  pretty  bad  when  I  got  there.  Anyway, 
she  put  me  in  a  cab  and  brought  me  home ;  and 
I  don't  remember  anything  about  it,  for  I  was 
queer    in  the  head    very  soon    after   they  got  me  to 


CHAP.  Ml  YOUTH  337 

bed.  Oh,  I  was  bad!  It  was  just  a  squeak/ — said 
Lucy,  her  voice  dropping  from  exhaustion;  but  hf-r 
eyes  glittered  in  lier  pinched  face  Avith  a  curious 
triumph,  difficult  to  decipher. 

Dora  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  entreated  her  not  to 
talk ;  she  was  sure  it  was  bad  for  her.  But  Lucy,  as 
usual,  would  not  be  managed.  She  held  herself  quite 
still,  gathering  breath  and  strength ;  then  she  began 
again : 

'If  I'd  died,  perhaps  /le'd  have  been  sorry.  You 
know  who  I  mean.  It  was  all  along  of  him.  And 
father  '11  never  forgive  me — never.  He  looks  quite 
different  altogether  somehow.  Dora !  you're  not  to 
tell  him  anything  till  I've  got  right  away.  I  think — 
I  think — I  hate  him  !' 

And  suddenly  her  beautiful  brown  eyes  opened  wide 
and  fierce. 

Dora  hung  over  her,  a  strange,  mingled  passion  in 
her  look.  '  You  poor  little  thing  I '  she  said  slowly, 
with  a  deep  emphasis,  answering  not  the  unreal  Lucy 
of  those  last  words,  but  the  real  one,  so  pitifully  evi- 
dent beneath. 

'But  look  here,  Dora;  when  I'm  gone  away,  you 
may  tell  him — you  must  tell  him,  Dora,'  said  the 
child,  imperiously.  '  I'd  not  have  him  see  me  now  for 
anything.  I  made  INIary  Ann  put  all  the  glasses 
away.  I  don't  want  to  remember  what  a  fright  I  am. 
But  at  Hastings  I'll  soon  get  well ;  and — and  remem- 
ber, Dora,  you  are  to  tell  him.  I'd  like  him  to  know 
I  nearly  caught  my  death  that  day,  and  that  it  was 
all  along  of  him ! ' 

She  laid  her  hands  across  each  other  on  the  sheet 
with  a  curious  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  was  quiet  for 
a  little,  while  Dora  held  her  hand.  But  it  was  not 
long  before  the  stillness  broke  up  in  sudden  agitation. 
A  tremor  ran  through  her,  and  she  caught  Dora's  fin- 

VOL.  1  z. 


338  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

gers.  In  her  weakness  she  could  not  control  herself, 
and  her  inmost  trouble  escaped  her. 

'  Oh,  Dora,  he  Avasn't  kind  to  me,  not  a  bit — when  I 
went  to  tell  him  that  night.  Oh !  I  cried  when  I 
came  home.     I  did  think  he'd  have  taken  it  different.' 

'  What  did  he  say  ? '  asked  Dora,  quietly.  Her 
face  was  turned  away  from  Lucy,  but  she  still  held 
her  hand. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know ! '  said  Lucy,  moving  her  head 
restlessly  from  side  to  side  and  gulping  down  a  sob. 
'I  believe  he  was  just  sorry  it  was  me  he'd  got  to 
thank.  Oh,  I  don't  know  ! — I  don't  know  ! — very 
likely  he  didn't  mean  it.' 

She  waited  a  minute,  then  she  began  again : 

'  Oh  of  course  you  think  I'm  silly ;  and  that  I'd 
have  much  more  chance  if  I  turned  proud,  and  pre- 
tended I  didn't  care.  I  know  some  girls  say  they'd 
never  let  a  man  know  they  cared  for  him  first.  I 
don't  believe  in  'em  !  But  I  don't  care.  I  can't  help 
it.     It's  my  way.     But,  Dora,  look  here  ! ' 

The  tears  gathered  thick  in  her  eyes.  Dora,  bend- 
ing anxiously  over  her,  was  startled  by  the  change  of 
expression  in  her.  From  what  depths  of  new  emo- 
tion had  the  silly  Lucy  caught  the  sweetness  which 
trembled  for  a  moment  through  every  line  of  her  lit- 
tle trivial  face  ? 

'  You  know,  Dora,  it  was  all  nonsense  at  the  begin- 
ning. I  just  wanted  some  one  to  amuse  myself  with 
and  pay  me  attentions.  But  it  isn't  nonsense  now. 
And  I  don't  want  him  all  for  myself.  Friday  night  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  die.  I  don't  care  whether  the 
doctor  did  or  not ;  /  did.  And  I  prayed  a  good  deal. 
It  Avas  queer  praying,  I  dare  say.  I  was  very  light- 
headed, but  I  thanked  God  I  loved  him,  though — 
though — he  didn't  care  about  me ;  and  I  thought  if  I 
did  get  well,  and  he  were  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  I'd 


cii.u'.  VII  YOUTH  339 

show  hiin  I  could  be  as  nice  as  other  girls.  I  wouldn't 
want  everything  lor  myself,  or  spend  a  lot  of  money 
on  dress.' 

She  broke  off  for  want  of  breath.  This  moral  ex- 
perience of  liers  was  so  new  and  strange  to  her  that 
she  could  hardly  find  words  in  which  to  clothe  it. 

Dora  had  slipped  down  beside  her  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  bed.  When  Lucy  stopped,  she  still  knelt 
there  in  a  quivering  silence.  But  Lucy  could  not  bear 
her  to  be  silent — she  must  have  sympathy. 

'  Aren't  you  glad,  Dora  ?  '  she  said  presently,  when 
she  had  gathered  strength  again.  '  I  thought  you'd  be 
glad.  You've  always  wanted  me  to  turn  religious. 
And — and — perhaps,  when  I  get  well  and  come  back, 
I'll  go  with  you  to  St.  Damian's,  Dora.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is.  1  suppose  it's  caring  about  somebody — and 
being  ill — makes  one  feel  like  this.' 

And,  drawing  herself  from  Dora's  hold,  she  turned 
on  her  side,  put  both  her  thin  hands  under  her  cheek, 
and  lay  staring  at  tlie  window  with  a  look  which  had 
a  certain  dreariness  in  it. 

Dora  at  last  raised  herself.  Lucy  could  not  see  her 
face.  There  was  in  it  a  sweet  and  solemn  resolution 
— a  new  light  and  calm. 

'  Dear  Lucy,'  she  said,  tremulously,  laying  her  cheek 
against  her  cousin's  shoulder,  '  God  speaks  to  us  when 
we  are  unhappy — that  was  what  you  felt.  He  makes 
everything  a  voice  to  call  unto  Himself.' 

Lucy  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  suddenly  she 
turned,  and  said  eagerly  : 

'  Dora,  did  you  ever  ask  him — did  you  ever  find  out 
— whether  he  was  thinking  about  getting  married  ? 
You  said  you  would.' 

'He  isn't,  Lucy.  He  was  vexed  with  father  for 
speaking  about  it.  T  think  he  feels  he  must  make  his 
way  first.     His  business  takes  him  up  altogether.' 


340  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

Lucy  gave  an  irritable  sigh,  closed  her  eyes,  and 
would  talk  no  more.  Dora  stayed  with  her,  and  nursed 
her  through  the  evening.  When  at  last  the  nurse 
arrived  who  was  to  take  charge  of  her  through  the 
niglit,  Lucy  pulled  Dora  down  to  her  and  said,  in  a 
hoarse,  excitable  whisper  : 

'  Mind  you  tell  him — that  I  nearly  died — that  father 
'11  never 'be  the  same  to  me  again — and  it  was  all  for 
him!     You  needn't  say  /said  so.' 

Late  that  night  Dora  stood  long  at  her  attic-window 
in  the  roof  looking  out  at  the  April  night.  From  a 
great  bank  of  clouds  to  the  east  the  moon  was  just 
appearing,  sending  her  light  along  the  windy  streamers 
which,  issuing  from  the  main  mass,  spread  like  wide 
open  fingers  across  the  inner  heaven.  Opposite  there 
was  an  old  timbered  house,  one  of  the  few  relics  of  an 
earlier  Manchester,  which  still,  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  modern  city,  thrusts  out  its  broad  eaves  and  over- 
hanging stories  beyond  the  line  of  the  street.  Above 
and  behind  it,  roof  beyond  roof,  to  the  western  limit 
of  sight,  rose  block  after  block  of  warehouses,  vast 
black  masses,  symbols  of  the  great  town,  its  labours 
and  its  wealth ;  far  to  the  right,  closing  the  street,  the 
cathedral  cut  the  moonlit  sky ;  and  close  at  hand  was 
an  old  inn,  with  a  wide  archway,  under  which  a  huge 
dog  lay  sleeping. 

Town  and  sky,  the  upper  clouds  and  stars,  the 
familiar  streets  and  buildings  below — to-night  they 
were  all  changed  for  Dora,  and  it  was  another  being 
that  looked  at  them.  In  all  intense  cases  of  religious 
experience  the  soul  lies  open  to  'voices' — to  impres- 
sions which  have  for  it  the  most  vivid  and,  so  to  speak, 
physical  reality.  Jeanne  d'Arc's  visions  were  but  an 
extreme  instance  of  what  humbler  souls  have  known  in 
their  degree  in  all  ages.     The  heavenly  voices  speak, 


CHAP.  VII  YOUTH  341 

and  the  ear  actually  hears.  So  it  was  with  Dora.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  walking  in  a  feverish 
loneliness  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death ; 
that  one  like  unto  the  Son  of  Man  had  drawn  her 
thence  with  warning  and  rebuke,  and  she  was  now  at 
His  feet,  clothed  and  in  her  right  miiul.  Words  were 
in  her  ear,  repeated  again  and  again — peremptory 
words  which  stabbed  and  healed  at  once:  'DcKighter, 
thou  shdlt  not  covet.  I  hare  refused  thee  this  gift.  If 
it  he  Mij  icill  to  give  it  to  another,  ivhat  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Folloio  thou  J/i?.' 

As  she  sank  upon  her  knees,  she  thought  of  the 
confession  she  would  make  on  Sunday — of  the  mys- 
terious sanctity  and  sweetness  of  the  single  life — of 
the  vocation  of  sacrifice  laid  upon  her.  There  rose  in 
her  a  kind  of  ecstasy  of  renunciation.  Her  love — al- 
ready so  hopeless,  so  starved  ! — was  there  simply  that 
she  might  offer  it  up — burn  it  through  and  through 
with  the  tires  of  the  spirit. 

Lucy  should  never  know,  and  David  should  never 
know.  Unconsciously,  sweet  soul,  there  was  a  curious 
element  of  spiritual  arrogance  mingled  with  this  abso- 
lute surrender  of  the  one  passionate  human  desire  her 
life  was  ever  to  wrestle  with.  The  baptized  member 
of  Christ's  body  could  not  pursue  the  love  of  David 
Grieve,  could  not  marry  him  as  he  was  now,  without 
risk  and  sin.  But  Lucy — the  child  of  schism,  to  whom 
the  mysteries  of  Church  fellowship  and  sacramental 
grace  were  unknown — for  hor,  in  her  present  exalta- 
tion, Dora  felt  no  further  scruples.  Lucy's  love  was 
clearly  '  sent '  to  her ;  it  was  right,  whether  it  were  ul- 
timately happy  or  no,  because  of  the  religious  effect 
it  had  already  had  upon  her. 

The  human  happiness  Dora  dared  no  longer  grasp 
at  for  herself  she  yearned  now  to  pour  lavishly,  quickly, 
into  Lucy's  hands.     Only  so — such  is  our  mingled  life  1 


342  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       boor  h 

— could  she  altogether  still,  violently  and  by  force,  a 
sort  of  upward  surge  of  the  soul  which  terrified  her 
now  and  then.  A  mystical  casuistry,  bred  in  her 
naturally  simple  natiire  by  the  subtle  influences  of  a 
long-descended  Christianity,  combined  in  her  with  a 
piteous  human  instinct.  When  she  rose  from  her 
knees  she  was  certain  that  she  would  never  win  and 
marry  David  Grieve ;  she  was  equally  certain  that  she 
would  do  all  in  her  power  to  help  little  Lucy  to  win 
and  marry  him. 

So,  like  them  of  old,  she  pressed  the  spikes  into  her 
flesh,  and  found  a  numbing  consolation  in  the  pain. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Some  ten  days  more  elapsed  before  Lucy  was  pro- 
nounced fit  to  travel  south.  During  this  time  Dora 
saw  her  frequently,  and  the  bond  between  the  two 
girls  grew  much  closer  than  before.  On  the  one  hand, 
Lucy  yielded  herself  more  than  she  had  ever  done  yet 
to  Dora's  example  and  persuasion,  promised  to  go  to 
church  and  see  at  least  what  it  was  like  when  she  got 
to  Hastings,  and  let  Dora  provide  her  with  some  of 
her  favourite  High  Church  devotional  books.  On  the 
other,  it  was  understood  between  them  that  Dora 
would  look  after  Lucy's  interests,  and  keep  her  in- 
formed how  the  land  lay  while  she  was  in  the  south, 
and  Lucy,  with  the  blindness  of  self-love,  trusted  her- 
self to  her  cousin  without  a  suspicion  or  a  qualm. 

While  she  was  tending  Lucy,  Dora  never  saw  Pur- 
cell  but  twice,  when  she  passed  him  in  the  little  dark 
entry  leading  to  the  private  part  of  the  house,  and  on 
those  occasions  he  did  not,  so  far  as  she  could  per- 
ceive, make  any  answer  whatever  to  her  salutation. 


CHAP.  VIII 


YOUTH  043 


He  was  changed,  she  thought.  He  had  always  been  a 
morose-looking  man,  with  an  iron  jaw ;  but  now  there 
was  a  fixed  venom  and  disi^uiet,  as  well  as  a  new  look 
of  age,  in  the  sallow  face,  which  made  it  doubly 
unpleasing.  She  would  have  been  sorry  for  his  loneli- 
ness and  liis  disappointment  in  Lucy  but  for  the 
remembrance  of  his  mean  plot  against  David  Grieve, 
and  for  a  certain  other  little  fact.  A  middle-aged 
Avoman,  in  a  dowdy  brown-stuff  dress  and  black  mantle, 
had  begun  to  haunt  the  house.  She  sat  with  Purcell 
sometimes  in  the  parlour  downstairs,  and  sometimes 
he  accompanied  her  out  of  doors.  ^Mavy  Ann  reported 
that  she  was  a  widow,  a  Mrs.  Whymper,  who  belonged 
to  the  same  chapel  that  Purcell  did,  and  who  was  sup- 
l)Osed  by  those  who  knew  to  have  been  making  up  to 
him  for  some  time. 

'  And  perhaps  she'll  get  him  after  all,'  said  the  little 
ugly  maid,  with  a  grin.  'Catch  me  staying  then, 
Miss  Dora !     It's  bad  enough  as  it  is.' 

On  one  occasion  Dora  came  across  the  widow,  wait- 
ing in  the  little  sitting-room.  She  was  an  angular 
person,  with  a  greyish-brown  complexion,  a  prominent 
mouth  and  teeth,  and  a  generally  snappish,  alert  look. 
After  a  few  coujuionidaces,  in  which  Mrs.  Whymper 
was  clearly  condescending,  she  launched  into  a  denun- 
ciation of  Lucy's  ill  behaviour  to  her  father,  which  at 
last  roused  Dora  to  defence.  She  waxed  bold,  and 
pointed  out  that  Lucy  might  have  been  managed  if 
her  father  had  been  a  little  more  patient  with  her, 
had  allowed  her  a  few  ordinary  amusements,  and  had 
not  insisted  in  forcing  her  at  once,  fresh  from  school, 
into  ways  and  practices  she  did  not  naturally  like, 
while  she  had  never  been  trained  to  them  by  force  of 
habit. 

*Hoity  toity,  Miss!'  said  the  widow,  bridling, 
'  young  people  are  very  uppish  nowadays.    They  never 


SU  THE  HISTORY  Or  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

seem  to  remember  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  filth 
commandment.  In  mi/  young  days  what  a  father  said 
was  law,  and  no  questions  asked ;  and  I've  seen  many 
a  Lancashire  man  take  a  stick  to  his  gell  for  less 
provocation  than  this  gell's  given  her  feyther !  1 
wonder  at  you,  Miss  Lomax,  that  I  do,  for  backing 
her  up.  But  I'm  afraid  from  what  I  hear  you've  been 
taking  up  with  a  lot  of  Popish  ways.' 

And  the  woman  looked  her  up  and  down  with  an 
air  which  plainly  said  that  she  was  on  her  own  ground 
in  that  parlour,  and  might  say  exactly  what  she 
pleased  there. 

<  If  I  have,  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  to  you,'  said 
Dora  quietly,  and  retreated. 

Yes,  certainly,  a  stepmother  looked  likely !  Lucy 
in  her  bedroom  upstairs  knew  nothing,  and  Dora 
decided  to  tell  her  nothing  till  she  was  stronger.  But 
this  new  development  made  the  child's  future  more 
uncertain  than  ever. 

On  the  day  before  her  departure  for  Hastings,  Lucy 
came  out  for  a  short  walk,  by  Avay  of  hardening  her- 
self for  the  journey.  She  walked  round  the  cathedral 
and  up  Victoria  Street,  and  then,  tired  out  with  the 
exertion,  she  made  her  way  in  to  Dora,  to  rest.  Her 
face  was  closely  hidden  by  a  thick  Shetland  veil,  for, 
in  addition  to  her  general  pallor  and  emaciation,  her 
nsually  clear  and  brilliant  skin  was  roughened  and 
blotched  here  and  there  by  some  effect  of  her  illness ; 
she  could  not  bear  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and 
shrank  from  meeting  any  of  her  old  acquaintances. 
It  was,  indeed,  curious  to  watch  the  effect  of  the 
temporary  loss  of  beauty  upon  her;  her  morbid  impa- 
tience under  it  showed  at  every  turn.  But  for  it, 
Dora  was  convinced  that  she  must  and  would  have 
pvit  herself  in  David  Grieve's  way  again  before  leaving 
jSIanchester.  As  it  was,  she  was  still  determined  not 
to  let  him  see  her. 


CHAP,  vin  YOUTH  345 

She  caine  in,  much  exhausted,  and  threw  herself 
into  Daddy's  arm-chair  with  groans  of  self-pity.  Did 
Dora  think  she  would  ever  be  strong  again — ever  be 
anything  but  an  ugly  fright  ?  It  was  hard  to  have  all 
this  come  upon  you,  just  through  doing  a  service  to 
some  one  who  didn't  care. 

'  Hasn't  he  heard  yet  that  I've  been  ill  ? '  she 
inquired  petulantly. 

Xo ;  Dora  did  not  think  he  had.  Neither  she  nor 
Daddy  had  seen  him.  He  must  have  been  extra  busy. 
But  she  would  get  Daddy  to  ask  him  up  to  supper 
directly,  and  tell  him  all  about  it. 

'And  then,  perhaps,'  she  said,  looking  up  with  a 
sweet,  intense  look — how  little  Lucy  was  able  to 
decipher  it  I — '  perhaps  he  may  write  a  letter.' 

Lucy  was  cheered  by  this  suggestion,  and  sat  look- 
ing out  of  window  for  a  while,  idly  watching  the 
passers-by.  But  she  could  not  let  the  one  topic  that 
absorbed  her  mind  alone  for  long,  and  soon  she  was 
once  more  questioning  Dora  in  close  detail  about 
David  Grieve's  sister  and  all  that  he  had  said  about 
her.  For,  by  way  of  obliging  the  child  to  realise  some 
of  the  inconvenient  burdens  and  obligations  which 
were  at  that  moment  hanging  round  the  young  book- 
seller's neck,  and  making  the  very  idea  of  matrimony 
ridiculous  to  him,  Dora  had  repeated  to  her  some  of 
his  confidences  about  himself  and  Louie.  Lucy  had 
not  taken  them  very  happily.  Everything  that  turned 
up  now  seemed  only  to  push  her  further  out  of  sight 
and  make  her  more  insignificant.  She  was  thirsting, 
with  a  woman's  nascent  passion  and  a  schoolgirl's 
vanity,  to  be  the  centre  and  heroine  of  the  play ;  and  here 
she  was  reduced  to  the  smallest  and  meanest  of  parts 
— a  part  that  caught  nobody's  eye,  do  what  she  would. 

Suddenly  she  broke  off  what  she  was  saying,  and 
called  to  Dora : 


346  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

'  Do  you  see  that  pair  of  people,  Dora  ?     Come — 
come  at  once  !     What  an  extraordinary-looking  girl ! ' 

Dora  turned  unwillingly,  being  absorbed  in  a  golden 
halo  which  she  had  set  herself  to  finish  that  day ;  then 
she  dropped  her  needle,  and  pushed  her  stool  back 
that  she  might  see  better.  From  the  cathedral  end  of 
Market  Place  an  elderly  grey-haired  man  and  a  young 
girl  were  advancing  along  the  pavement  towards  the 
Parlour.  As  they  passed,  the  flower-sellers  at  the 
booths  were  turning  to  look  at  them,  some  persons  in 
front  of  them  were  turning  back,  and  a  certain  number 
of  errand-boys  and  other  loungers  were  keeping  pace 
with  them,  observing  them.  The  man  leant  every 
now  and  then  on  a  thick  stick  he  carried,  and  looked 
uncertainly  from  house  to  house.  He  had  a  worn, 
anxious  expression,  and  the  helpless  movements  of 
short  sight.  AVhenever  he  stopped  the  girl  moved  on 
alone,  and  he  had  to  hurry  after  her  again  to  catch 
her  up.  She,  meanwhile,  was  perfectly  conscious 
that  she  was  being  stared  at,  and  stared  in  return 
with  a  haughty  composure  which  seemed  to  draw  the 
eyes  of  the  passers-by  after  it  like  a  magnet.  She 
was  very  tall  and  slender,  and  her  unusual  height 
made  her  garish  dress  the  more  conspicuous.  The 
small  hat  perched  on  her  black  hair  was  all  bright 
scarlet,  both  the  felt  and  the  trimming;  under  her 
jacket,  which  was  purposely  thrown  back,  there  was 
a  scarlet  bodice,  and  there  was  a  broad  band  of  scarlet 
round  the  edge  of  her  black  dress. 

Lucy  could  not  take  her  eyes  off  her. 
'  Did  you  ever  see  anybody  so  handsome,  Dora  ? 
But  what  a  fast,  horrid  creatvire  to  dress  like  that ! 
And  just  look  at  her ;  she  won't  wait  for  the  old  man, 
though  he's  calling  to  her — she  goes  on  staring  at 
everybody.  They'll  have  a  crowd,  presently  !  Why, 
they're  coming  here  I ' 


CHAP.    VIII 


YOUTH  347 


For  suddenly  the  girl  stopped  outside  the  doorway 
below,  and  beckoned  imperiously  to  her  companion. 
She  said  a  few  sharp  words  to  him,  and  the  pair  up- 
stairs feltthe  swing-door  of  the  restaurant  open  andshut. 

Lucy,  forgetting  her  weakness,  ran  eagerly  to  the 
sitting-room  door  and  listened. 

There  was  a  sound  of  raised  voices  below,  and  then 
the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  opened,  and  Daddy 
was  heard  shouting. 

'There — go  along  upstairs.  My  daughter,  she'll 
speak  to  you.  And  don't  you  come  back  this  way — a 
man  can't  be  feeding  jManchester  and  taking  strangers 
about,  all  in  the  same  twinkling  of  an  eye,  you  know, 
not  unless  he  happens  to  have  a  few  spare  bodies 
handy,  which  ain't  precisely  my  case.  i\Iy  daughter 
'11  tell  you  what  you  want  to  know,  and  show  you  out 
by  the  private  door.     Dora  I ' 

Dora  stood  waiting  rather  nervously  at  the  sitting- 
room  door.  Tlie  girl  came  up  first,  the  old  man  be- 
hind her,  bewildered  and  groping  his  way. 

'  We're  strangers  here — we  want  somebody  to  show 
us  the  way.  We've  been  to  the  book-sho})  in  Half 
Street,  and  they  sent  us  on  here.  They  were  just 
brutes  to  us  at  that  book-shop,'  said  the  girl,  with  a 
vindictive  emphasis  and  an  imperious  self-possession 
which  fairly  paralysed  Lucy  and  Dora.  Lucy's  eyes, 
moreover,  were  riveted  on  her  face,  on  its  colour,  its 
fineness  of  feature,  its  brilliance  and  piercingness  of 
expression.  And  what  was  the  extraordinary  likeness 
in  it  to  something  familiar  ? 

'Why!'  said  Dora,  in  a  little  cry,  'aren't  you  ]\Ir. 
David  Grieve's  sister  ?  ' 

For  she  had  traced  the  likeness  before  Lucy.  '  Oh, 
it  must  be  I ' 

'  Well,  I  am  his  sister,  if  you  want  to  know,'  said 
the  stranger,  looking  astonished  in  her  turn.     'He 


348  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

wrote  to  me  to  come  up.  And  I  lent  the  letter  to 
uncle  to  read — that's  his  uncle — and  he  went  and  lost 
it  somehow,  fiddling  about  the  fields  while  I  was  put- 
ting my  things  together.  And  then  we  couldn't  think 
of  the  proper  address  there  was  in  it — only  the  name 
of  a  man  Purcell,  in  Half  Street,  that  David  said  he'd 
been  with  for  two  years.  So  we  went  there  to  ask ; 
and,  my ! — weren't  they  rude  to  us  !  There  was  an 
ugly  black  man  there  chivied  us  out  in  no  time — 
wouldn't  tell  us  anything.  But  as  I  was  shutting  the 
door  the  shopman  whispered  to  me,  "  Try  the  Parlour 
— Market  Place."     So  we  came  on  here,  you  see.' 

And  she  stared  about  her,  at  the  room,  and  at  the 
girls,  taking  in  everything  with  lightning  ra})idity — 
the  embroidery  frame,  Lucy's  veil  and  fashionably  cut 
jacket,  the  shabby  furniture,  the  queer  old  pictures. 

'Please  come  in,'  said  Dora  civilly,  'and  sit  down. 
If  you're  strangers  here,  I'll  just  put  on  my  hat  and 
take  you  round.  Mr.  Grieve's  a  friend  of  ours.  He's 
in  Potter  Street.  You'll  find  him  nicely  settled  by 
now.     This  is  my  cousin,  ]\Ir.  Purcell's  daughter.' 

And  she  ran  upstairs,  leaving  Lucy  to  grapple  with 
the  new-comers. 

The  two  girls  sat  down,  and  eyed  each  other. 
Reuben  s'tood  patiently  waiting. 

'  Is  the  man  at  Half  Street  your  father  ? '  asked  the 
new-comer,  abruptly. 

'  Yes,'  said  Lucy,  conscious  of  the  strangest  mingling 
of  admiration  and  dislike,  as  she  met  the  girl's  won- 
derful eyes. 

'Did  he  and  Davy  fall  out  ?  ' 

'  They  didn't  get  on  about  Sundays,'  said  Lucy, 
unwillingly,  glad  of  the  sheltering  veil  which  enabled 
her  to  hold  her  oAvn  against  this  masterful  creature. 

'  Is  your  father  strict  about  chapel  and  that  sort  of 
thiuL^ ': ' 


CHAP,  vin  YOUTH  349 

Lucy  nodded.  She  felt  an  ungracious  wish  to  say 
as  little  as  possible. 

David's  sister  laughed. 

'  Davy  was  that  way  once — just  for  a  bit — afore  lie 
ran  away.     /  knew  he  wouldn't  keep  it  on.' 

Then,  with  a  queer  look  over  her  shoulder  at  her 
uncle,  slie  relapsed  into  silence.  Her  attention  was 
drawn  to  Dora's  frame,  and  she  moved  up  to  it,  bend- 
ing over  it  and  lifting  the  handkerchief  that  Dora  had 
thrown  across  it. 

'  You  mustn't  touch  it ! '  said  Lucy,  hastily,  pro- 
voked, she  knew  not  wh}-,  by  every  movement  the 
girl  made.     'It's  very  particular  work.' 

'  I'm  used  to  fine  things,'  said  the  other,  scornfully. 
'  I'm  a  silk-weaver — that's  my  trade — all  the  best  bro- 
cades, drawing-room  trains,  that  style  of  thing.  If 
you  didn't  handle  them  carefully,  you'd  know  it.  Yes, 
she's  doing  it  well,'  and  the  speaker  put  her  head 
down  and  examined  the  work  critically.  'But  it 
must  go  fearful  slow,  compared  to  a  loom.' 

'  She  does  it  splendidlv,'  said  Lucy,  annoyed  ;  '  she's 
getting  quite  famous  for  it.  That's  going  to  a  great 
church  u})  in  Loudon,  and  she's  got  more  orders  than 
she  can  take.' 

'  Does  she  get  good  pay  ?  '  asked  the  girl  eagerly. 

'I  don't  know,'  replied  Luc}^  shortly. 

'Because,  if  there's  good  pay,'  said  the  other,  ex- 
amining the  Avork  again  closely,  'I'd  soon  learn  it — 
why  I'd  learn  it  in  a  week,  you  see  !  If  I  stay  here  I 
shan't  get  no  more  silk-weaving.  And  of  course  I'll 
stay.  I'm  just  sick  of  the  country.  I'd  have  come 
up  long  ago  if  I'd  known  where  to  find  Davy.' 

'I'm  ready,'  said  Dora  in  a  constrained  voice  beside 
her. 

Louie  Grieve  looked  up  at  her. 

'Oh,  vou  needn't  look  so  glum  I — T  haven't  luu't  it. 


350  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  n 

I'm  used  to  good  things,  stuffs  at  two  guineas  a  yard, 
and  the  like  of  that.  What  money  do  you  take  a 
week  ?  '  and  she  pointed  to  the  frame. 

Something  in  the  tone  and  manner  made  the  ques- 
tion specially  offensive.    Dora  pretended  not  to  hear  it. 

'Shall  we  go  now?  she  said,  hurriedly  covering  her 
precious  work  up  from  those  sacrilegious  fingers  and 
putting  it  away.     '  Lucy,  you  ought  to  be  going  home.' 

'Well,  I  Avill  directly/  said  Lucy.  'Don't  you 
bother  about  me.' 

They  all  went  downstairs.  Lucy  put  up  her  veil, ' 
and  pressed  her  face  against  the  window,  watching 
for  them.  As  she  saw  them  cross  ^larket  Street,  she 
was  seized  with  hungry  longing.  She  wanted  to  be 
going  with  them,  to  talk  to  him  herself — to  let  him 
see  what  she  had  gone  through  for  him.  It  would  be 
months  and  months,  perhaps,  before  they  met  again. 
And  Dora  Avould  see  him — his  horrid  sister — everyone 
but  she.  He  would  forget  all  about  her,  and  she 
would  be  dull  and  wretched  at  Hastings. 

But  as  she  turned  away  in  her  restless  pain,  she 
caught  sight  of  her  changed  face  in  the  cracked  look- 
ing-glass over  the  mantelpiece.  Her  white  lips  tight- 
ened.    She  drew  down  her  veil,  and  went  home. 

Meanwhile  Dora  led  the  way  to  Potter  Street. 
Louie  took  little  notice  of  any  attempts  to  talk  to  her. 
She  was  wholly  engaged  in  looking  about  her  and  at 
the  shops.  Especially  was  she  attracted  by  the  drapers' 
windows  in  St.  Ann's  Square,  pronouncing  her  opinion 
loudly  and  freely  as  to  their  contents. 

Dora  fell  meditating.  Young  Grieve  would  have 
his  work  cut  out  for  him,  she  thought,  if  this  extraor- 
dinary sister  were  really  going  to  settle  with  him. 
She  was  very  like  him — strangely  like  him.  And  yet 
in  the  one  face  there  was   a   (juality  which  was  com- 


CHAP.  Mil  YOUTH  361 

pletely  lacking  in  the  other,  and  which  seemed  to  make 
all  the  difference.  Dora  tried  to  explain  what  she 
meant  to  herself,  and  failed. 

*  Here's  Potter  Street,'  she  said,  as  they  turned  into 
it.  *  And  that's  his  shop — that  one  with  the  stall  out- 
side.    Oh,  there  he  is  ! ' 

David  was  in  fact  standing  on  his  step  talking  to  a 
customer  who  was  turning  over  the  books  outside. 

Louie  looked  at  him.  Then  she  began  to  run.  Old 
Grieve  too,  crimson  all  over,  and  evidently  much 
excited,  hurried  on.  Dora  fell  behind,  her  quick  sym- 
pathies rising. 

'  They  won't  want  me  interfering,'  she  said,  turning 
round.     '  I'll  just  go  back  to  my  work.' 

^Meanwhile,  in  David's  little  back  room,  which  he 
had  already  swept  and  garnished — for  after  his  letter 
of  the  night  before,  he  had  somehow  expected  Louie  to 
rush  upon  him  by  the  earliest  possible  train — the  meet- 
ing of  these  long-sundered  persons  took  place. 

David  saw  Reuben  come  in  with  amazement. 

'  Why,  L^ncle  Reuben !  Well,  I'm  real  glad  to  see 
you.  I  didn't  think  you'd  have  been  able  to  leave  the 
farm,  "Well,  this  is  my  bit  of  a  place,  you  see.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?  ' 

And,  holding  his  sister  by  the  hand,  the  young- 
fellow  looked  joyously  at  his  uncle,  pride  in  his  new 
possessions  and  the  recollection  of  his  destitute  child- 
hood rushing  upon  him  together  as  he  spoke. 

'Aye,  it's  a  fine  beginning  yo've  made,  Davy,'  said 
the  old  man,  cautiously  looking  round,  first  at  the  little 
room,  with  its  neat  bits  of  new  furniture  in  Louie's 
honour,  and  then  through  the  glass  door  at  the  shoi), 
Avhich  was  now  heavily  lined  with  books.  '  Yo  wor 
alius  a  cliver  lad,  Davy.     A'  think  a'll  sit  down.' 

And  Reuben,  subsiding  into  a  chair,  fell  forthwith 


352  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

into  an  abstraction,  his  old  knotted  hands  trembling  a 
little  on  his  knees. 

Meanwhile  David  was  holding  Louie  at  arm's- 
length  to  look  at  her.  He  had  kissed  her  heartily 
when  she  came  in  lirst,  and  now  he  was  all  pleasure 
and  excitement. 

''Pon  my  word,  Louie,  you've  grown  as  high  as  the 
roof!  I  say,  Louie,  what's  become  of  that  smart  pink 
dress  you  wore  at  last  "  wake,"  and  of  that  overlooker, 
with  the  moustaches,  from  New  Mills,  you  walked 
about  with  all  day  ? ' 

She  stared  at  him  open-mouthed. 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? '  she  said,  quickly. 

David  laughed  out. 

'And  who  was  it  gave  Jim  Wigson  a  box  on  the 
ears  last  fifth  of  November,  in  the  lane  just  by  the 
Dye-works,  eh,  Miss  Louie  ? — and  danced  with  young 
Eedway  at  the  Upper  Mill  dance,  New  Year's  Day  ? — 
and  had  words  with  Mr.  James  at  the  office  about  her 
last  "cut,"  a  fortnight  ago — eh,  Louie  ?  ' 

'  What  ever  do  you  mean  ? '  she  said,  half  crossly, 
her  colour  rising.     '  You've  been  spying  on  me.' 

She  hated  to  be  mystified.  It  made  her  feel  herself 
in  some  one  else's  power;  and  the  wild  creature  in 
her  blood  grew  restive. 

'  Why,  I've  known  all  about  you  these  four  years  ! ' 
the  lad  began,  with  dancing  eyes.  Then  suddenly  his 
voice  changed,  and  dropped :  '  I  say,  look  at  Uncle 
Eeuben ! ' 

For  Eeuben  sat  bent  forward,  his  light  blurred 
eyes  looking  out  straight  before  him,  with  a  singular 
yet  blind  intentness,  as  though,  while  seeing  nothing 
round  about  him,  they  passed  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
little  room  to  some  vision  of  their  own. 

'I  don't  know  whatever  he  came  for,'  began  Louie, 
as  they  both  examined  him. 


CHAP,  vm  YOUTH  353 

'Uncle  Reuben,"  said  David,  going  up  to  him  and 
touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  'you  look  tired.  You'll 
be  wanting  some  dinner.  I'll  just  send  my  man,  John 
Dalby,  round  the  corner  for  something.' 

And  he  made  a  step  towards  the  door,  but  Eeuben 
raised  his  hand. 

'Xoa,  noa,  Davy  !     Shut  that  door,  wiltha?  ' 

David  wondered,  and  shut  it. 

Then  Keuben  gave  a  long  sigh,  and  put  his  hand 
deep  into  his  coat  pocket,  witli  the  quavering,  uncer- 
tain movement  characteristic  of  him. 

'Davy,  my  lad,  a've  got  summat  to  say  to  tha.' 

And  witli  many  hitches,  while  the  others  watched 
him  in  astonishment,  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a 
canvas  bag  and  put  it  down  on  an  oak  stool  in  front 
of  him.  Then  he  undid  the  string  of  it  with  his  large 
awkward  fingers,  and  pushed  the  stool  across  to  David. 

'  Theer's  sixty  pund  tlieer,  Davy — sixty  pund  I  Yo 
can  keawnt  it — it's  aw  reet.  A've  saved  it  for  yo, 
this  four  year — four  year  coom  lasst  Michaelmas  Day. 
Hannah  nor  nobory  knew  owt  abeawt  it.  But  it's 
yourn — it's  yor  share,  being  t'  half  o'  Mr.  Gurney's 
money.  Louie's  share — that  wor  different ;  we  had  a 
reet  to  that,  she  bein  a  growin  girl,  and  doin  nowt 
mich  for  her  vittles.  Fro  the  time  when  5-0  should  ha 
had  it — whether  for  wages  or  for  'prenticin — an  yo 
couldna,  ha  it,  because  Hannah  had  set  hersen  agen  it, 
— a  saved  it  for  tha,  owt  0'  t'  summer  cattle  moastly, 
without  tellin  nobory,  so  as  not  to  mak  words.' 

David,  bewildered,  had  taken  the  bag  into  his  hand. 
Louie's  eyes  were  almost  out  of  her  head  with  curiosity 
and  amazement.  '  3/r.  Gurney's  money."  What  did 
he  mean  ?     It  was  all  double-Dutch  to  them. 

David,  with  an  effort.  eontr6lled  himself,  being  now 
a  man  and  a  householder.  He  stood  with  his  back 
against  the  shop  door,  his  gaze  fixed  on  Eeuben. 

VOL.  I  2  a 


354  THE   HISTORY  or  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

'Now,  Uncle  Reuben,  I  don't  understand  a  bit  of 
what  you've  been  saying,  and  Louie  don't  either. 
Who's  Mr.  Gurney  ?  and  what's  his  nioney  ?' 

Unconsciously  the  young  man's  voice  took  a  sharp, 
magisterial  note.  Reuben  gave  another  long  sigh. 
He  was  now  leaning  on  his  stick,  staring  at  the  floor. 

'Noa, — a'  know  yo  doan't  understan;  a've  got  to 
tell  tha — 'at's  t'  worst  part  on  't.  An  I'm  soa  bad  at 
tellin.  Do  yo  mind  when  yor  feyther  deed,  Davy  ?  ' 
he  said  suddenly,  looking  up. 

David  nodded, — a  red  flush  of  presentiment  spread 
itself  over  his  face — his  whole  being  hung  on  Reuben's 
words. 

'  He  sent  for  me  afore  he  deed,'  continued  Reuben, 
slowly ;  '  an  he  towd  me  aw  about  his  affairs.  Six 
liunderd  pund  he'd  got  saved — six-lmnderd-pund !  Aye, 
it  wor  a  lot  for  a  yoong  mon  like  him,  and  after 
sich  a  i^eck  o'  troobles  !  An  he  towd  me  Mr.  Gurne}^ 
ud  pay  us  th'  interest  for  yor  bringin-up — th'  two 
on  yo ;  an  whan  yo  got  big,  Davy,  I  wor  to  tak 
keawnsel  wi  Mr.  Gurney,  an,  if  yo  chose  for  t'  land, 
yo  were  to  ha  yor  money  for  a  farm,  when  yo  wor 
big  eneuf,  an  if  yo  turned  agen  th'  land,  yo  wor  to 
be  'prenticed  to  soom  trade,  an  ha  yor  money  when 
yo  wanted  it, — Mr.  Gurney  bein  willin.  An  I  prom- 
ised him  I'd  deal  honest  wi  his  childer,  an ' 

Reuben  paused  painfully.  He  was  wrestling  with 
his  conscience,  and  groping  for  words  about  his  wife. 
The  brother  and  sister  sat  open-mouthed,  pale  with 
excitement,  afraid  of  losing  a  single  syllable. 

'  An  takkin  it  awthegither,'  he  said,  bringing  each 
word  out  with  an  effort,  '  I  doan't  think,  by  t'  Lord's 
mercy,  as  I've  gone  soa  mich  astray,  though  I  ha  been 
micli  troobled  this  four  ^'ear  wi  thowts  o'  Sandy — my 
brither  Sandy — an  wi  not  knowin  wheer  yo  wor  gone, 
Davy.      Bit  yo  seem  coom  to  an    honest    trade — an 


CHAP.  VIII  Yori'II  350 

Louie  theer  ha  lanit  a  trade  too, — an  addle't  a  bit 
money, — an  she's  a  fine-grown  lass ' 

He  turned  a  slow,  searching  look  upon  her,  as 
though  he  were  pleading  a  cause  before  some  unseen 
judge. 

'  An  theer's  yor  money,  Davy.  It's  aw  th'  same, 
a'm  thinkin,  whether  yo  get  it  fro  me  or  fro  Mr.  Gur- 
ney.     An  here ' 

He  rose,  and  unbuttoning  his  inner  coat,  fumbled 
in  the  pocket  of  it  till  he  found  a  letter. 

'An  here  is  a  letter  for  Mr.  Gurney.  If  yo  gie  me 
a  pen,  I)avy,  I'll  write  in  to  't  yor  reet  address,  an 
put  it  in  t'  post  as  I  goo  to  t'  station.  I  took  noatice 
of  a  box  as  I  coom  along.     An  then ' 

He  stood  still  a  moment  pondering,  one  outspread 
hand  on  the  letter. 

'  An  then  theer's  nowt  moor  as  a  can  remember, — 
an  your  aunt  ull  be  wearyiu  ;  an  it's  but  reet  she 
should  know  now,  at  wonst,  abeawt  t'  money  a've 
saved  this  four  year,  an  t'  letter  to  'Mv.  Gurney.  Yo 
understan — when  yor  letter  came  this  niornin^- — t' 
mon  browt  it  up  to  Louie  abeawt  eight  o'clock — she 
towd  me  fust  out  i'  th'  yard — an  I  said  to  her, 
••Doan't  30U  tell  yor  aunt  nowt  abeawt  it,  an  we'st 
meet  at  t'  station."  An  I  made  soom  excuse  to  Han- 
nah abeawt  gooin  ower  t'  Scout  after  soom  beeasts — 
an — an — Louie  an  me  coom  thegither.' 

He  passed  his  other  hand  painfully  across  his  brow. 
Tlxe  travail  of  expression,  the  nu)ral  struggle  of  the 
last  twenty-four  hours,  seemed  to  have  aged  him  before 
them. 

David  sat  looking  at  him  in  a  stupefied  silence.  A 
light  was  breaking  in  upon  him,  transfiguring,  com- 
bining, interpreting  a  hundred  scattered  remembrances 
of  his  boyhood.  lUit  Louie,  the  instant  her  uncle 
stopped,  broke  into  a  string  of  questions,  shrill  and 


350  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  n 

breathless,  her  face  quite  white,  her  eyes  glittering. 
Reuben  seenaed  hardly  to  hear  her,  and  in  the  middle 
of  them  David  said  sharply, 

'  Stop  that,  Louie,  and  let  me  talk  to  Uncle  Reu- 
ben ! ' 

He  drew  the  letter  from  under  Reuben's  fingers, 
and  went  on,  steadily  looking  up  into  his  uncle's  face  : 

'You'll  let  me  read  it,  uncle,  and  I'll  get  you  a  pen 
directly  to  put  in  the  address.  But  first  will  you  tell 
us  about  father  ?  You  never  did — you  nor  Aunt 
Hannah.     And  about  mother,  too  ?  ' 

He  said  the  last  words  with  difficulty,  having  all 
his  life  been  pricked  by  a  certain  instinct  about  his 
mother,  which  had,  however,  almost  nothing  definite 
to  work  upon.  Reuben  thought  a  minute,  then  sat 
down  again  patiently. 

'Aye,  a'll  tell  tha.  Theer's  nobody  else  can.  An 
tha  ought  to  know,  though  it'll  mebbe  be  a  shock  to 
tha.' 

And,  with  his  head  resting  against  his  stick,  he 
began  to  tell  the  story  of  his  brother  and  his  brother's 
marriage  as  he  remembered  it. 

First  came  the  account  of  Sandy's  early  struggles, 
as  Sandy  himself  had  described  them  on  that  visit 
which  he  had  paid  to  the  farm  in  the  first  days  of  his 
prosperity  ;  then  a  picture  of  his  ultimate  success  in 
business,  as  it  had  appeared  to  the  dull  elder  brother 
dazzled  by  the  younger's  '  cliverness.' 

'  Aye,  he  might  ha  been  a  great  mon ;  he  might  ha 
coom  to  varra  high  things,  might  Sandy,'  said  Reuben 
solemnly,  his  voice  suddenly  rising,  '  bit  for  th'  hizzy 
that  ruined  hinr  ! ' 

Both  his  hearers  made  an  involuntary  movement. 
But  Reuben  had  now  lost  all  count  of  them.  He  was 
intent  on  one  thing,  and  capable  only  of  one  thing. 
They  had  asked  him  for  liis  story,  and  lie  was  telling 


CHAP.     VIII 


YOUTH  357 


it,  with  an  immense  effort  of  mind,  recovering  the  past 
as  best  he  could,  and  feeling  some  of  it  over  again 
intensely. 

So  when  he  came  to  the  marriage,  he  told  the  story 
like  one  thinking  it  out  to  himself,  with  an  appalling 
plainness  of  phrase.  It  was,  of  course,  impossible 
for  him  to  explahb  Sandy's  aberration — there  were  no 
resources  in  him  equal  to  the  task.  Louise  Suveret 
became  in  his  account  what  she  had  always  remained  in 
his  imagination  since  Sandy's  emjdoyers  told  him  what 
was  known  of  her  story — a  mere  witch  and  devil,  sent 
for  his  brother's  perdition.  All  his  resentment  against 
his  brother's  fate  had  passed  into  his  hatred  of  this 
creature  whom  he  never  seen.  Nay,  he  even  held 
up  the  picture  of  her  hideous  death  before  her  children 
with  a  kind  of  sinister  triumph.  So  let  the  ungodly 
and  the  harlot  perish ! 

David  stood  opposite  to  the  speaker  all  the  while, 
motionless,  save  for  an  uneasy  movement  here  and  there 
when  Eeuben's  words  grew  more  scripturally  frank 
than  usual.  Louie's  face  was  much  more  positive  than 
David's  in  what  it  said.  Reuben  and  Reuben's  vehe- 
mence annoyed  and  angered  her.  She  frowned  at  him 
from  under  her  black  brows.  It  was  evident  that  he, 
ratlier  than  his  story,  excited  her. 

'  An  we  buried  him  aw  reet  an  proper,'  said  Reuben 
at  last,  wiping  his  brow,  damp  with  this  unwonted 
labour  of  brain  and  tongue.  '  Mr.  Gurney  he  would  ha 
it  aw  done  handsome  ;  and  we  put  liim  in  a  corner  o' 
Kensal  Green,  just  as  close  as  might  be  to  whar  they'd 
put  her  after  th'  crowner  had  sat  on  her.  Yor  feyther 
had  left  word,  an  Mr.  Gurney  would  ha  nowt  different. 
But  it  went  agen  me — aye,  it  did — to  leave  him  wi  her 
after  aw ! ' 

And  falling  suddenly  silent,  Reuben  sat  wrapped  in 
a  sombre  mist  of  memorv. 


358  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GEIEVE       book  ii 

Then  Louie  broke  out,  rolling  and  unrolling  the  rib- 
bons of  her  hat  in  hot  fingers. 

'  I  don't  believe  half  on't — I  don't  see  how  you  could 
know — nor  Mr.  Gurney  either.' 

Reuben  looked  round  bewildered.  Louie  got  up 
noisily,  Avent  to  the  window  and  threAv  it  open,  as 
though  oi^pressed  by  the  nan^owness  of  the  room. 

'No,  I  don't,'  she  repeated,  defiantly — 'I  don't  believe 
the  half  on't.     But  I'll  find  out  some  day.' 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  sill,  and,  looking  out 
into  the  squalid  bit  of  yard,  threw  a  bit  of  grit  that  lay 
on  the  window  at  a  cat  that  sat  sleepily  blinking  on 
the  flags  outside. 

Reuben  rose  heavily. 

'  Gie  me  pen  and  ink,  Davy,  an  let  me  go.' 

The  young  man  brought  it  him  without  a  word. 
Reuben  put  in  the  address. 

'  Ha  yo  read  it,  Davy  ? ' 

David  started.  In  his  absorption  he  had  forgotten 
to  read  it. 

*  I  wor  forced  to  write  it  i'  the  top  sheepfold,' 
Reuben  began  to  explain  apologetically,  then  stopped 
suddenly.  Several  times  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
bringing  Hannah  into  the  conversation,  and  had  al- 
ways refrained.  He  refrained  now.  David  read  it. 
It  was  written  in  Reuben's  most  laborious  business 
style,  and  merely  requested  that  Mr.  Gurney  would 
now  communicate  with  Sandy's  son  direct  on  the 
subject  of  his  father's  money.  He  had  left  Needham 
Farm,  and  was  old  enough  to  take  counsel  himself 
with  Mr.  Gurney  in  future  as  to  what  should  be  done 
with  it. 

Reuben  looked  over  David's  shoulder  as  he  read. 

'  An  Louie  ?  '  he  said  uncertainly,  at  the  end,  jerk- 
ing his  thumb  towards  her. 

'  I'm  stayin  here,'  said  Louie  peremptorily,  still 
looking  out  of  window. 


CHAP.  \^u  YOUTH  Son 

Reuben  said  nothing.  Perhaps  a  shade  of  relief 
lightened  his  old  face. 

When  the  letter  was  handed  back  to  him,  he  sealed 
it  and  ])ut  it  into  his  pocket,  buttoning  up  his  coat  for 
departure. 

*Yo  wor  talkin  abeawt  dinner,  Davy — or  sunimat,' 
said  the  old  man,  courteously.  'Thankee  kindly.  I 
want  for  nowt.     I  mun  get  home — I  mun  get  home.' 

Louie,  standing  absorbed  in  her  own  excited 
thoughts,  could  hardly  be  disturbed  to  say  good-bye 
to  him.  David,  still  in  a  dream,  led  him  through  the 
shop,  where  Eeuben  peered  about  him  with  a  certain 
momentary  curiosity. 

But  at  the  door  he  said  good-bye  in  a  great  hurry 
and  ran  down  the  steps,  evidently  impatient  to  be  rid 
of  his  nephew. 

David  turned  and  came  slowly  back  through  the 
little  piled-up  shop,  where  John,  all  eyes  and  ears,  sat 
on  a  high  stool  in  the  corner,  into  the  living  room. 

As  he  entered  it  Louie  sprang  upon  him,  and  seiz- 
ing him  with  both  hands,  danced  him  madly  round  the 
little  space  of  vacant  boards,  till  she  tripped  her  foot 
over  the  oak  stool,  and  sank  down  on  a  chair,  laughing 
Avildly. 

'How  much  of  that  money  am  I  going  to  have  ?  ' 
she  demanded  suddenlj^,  her  arms  crossed  over  her 
breast,  her  eyes  brilliant,  her  Avhole  aspect  radiant 
and  exulting. 

David  was  standing  over  the  fire,  looking  down  into 
it,  and  made  no  answer.  He  had  disengaged  himself 
from  her  as  soon  as  he  could. 

Louie  waited  a  while ;  then,  with  a  contemptuous 
lip  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  she  got  up. 

'  What's  the  good  of  Avorriting  about  things,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  You  won't  do  'em  no  good.  Why  don't 
you  think  about  the  money  ?     ]\Iy  word,  won't  Aunt 


3G0  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  ii 

Hannah  be  mad  !  How  am  I  to  get  my  parcels  from 
the  station,  and  where  am  I  to  sleep  ? ' 

'  You  can  go  and  see  the  house,'  said  David,  shortly. 
'  The  lodgers  upstairs  are  out,  and  there's  the  key  of 
the  attic' 

He  threw  it  to  her,  and  she  ran  off.  He  had  meant 
to  take  her  in  triumphal  progress  through  the  little 
house,  and  show  her  all  the  changes  he  had  been 
making  for  her  benefit  and  his  own.  But  a  gulf  had 
yawned  between  them.  He  was  relieved  to  see  her 
go,  and  when  he  was  left  alone  he  laid  his  arms  on 
the  low  mantelpiece  and  hid  his  face  upon  them.  His 
mother's  story,  his  father's  fate,  seemed  to  be  burn- 
ing into  his  heart. 

Reuben  hurried  home  through  the  bleak  March 
evening.  In  the  train  he  could  not  keep  himself  still, 
fidgeting  so  much  that  his  neighbours  eyed  him  with 
suspicion,  and  gave  him  a  wide  berth.  As  he  started 
to  walk  up  to  Kinder  a  thin,  raw  sleet  came  on.  It 
drove  in  his  face,  chilling  him  through  and  through, 
as  he  climbed  the  lonely  road,  where  the  black  moor- 
land forms  lay  all  about  him,  seen  dimly  through  the 
white  and  drifting  veil  of  the  storm.  But  he  was 
conscious  of  nothing  external.  His  mind  was  ab- 
sorbed by  the  thought  of  his  meeting  with  Hannah, 
and  by  the  excited  feeling  that  one  of  the  crises  of  his 
timid  and  patient  life  was  approaching.  During  the 
last  four  years  they  had  been  very  poor,  in  spite  of 
Mr.  Gurney's  half-yearly  cheque,  joartly  because  of 
the  determination  with  which  he  had  stuck  to  his 
secret  saving.  Hannah  would  think  they  were  going 
now  to  be  poorer  still,  but  he  meant  to  prove  to  her 
that  what  with  Louie's  departure  and  the  restoration 
of  their  whole  income  to  its  natural  channels,  there 
would  not  be  so  much  difference.     He  conned  his  fig- 


CHAT.    VUI 


YOUTH  361 


ures  eagerly,  rehearsing  what  he  would  say.  For  the 
rest  he  walked  lightly  and  briskly.  The  burden  of 
his  brother's  children  had  dropped  away  from  him, 
and  in  those  strange  inner  colloquies  of  his  he  could 
look  Sandy  in  the  face  again. 

Had  Hannah  discovered  his  flight,  he  wondered  ? 
Some  one,  he  was  afraid,  might  have  seen  him  and 
Louie  at  the  station  and  told  tales.  He  was  not  sure 
that  one  of  the  Wigsons  had  not  been  hanging  about 
the  station  yard.  And  that  letter  of  David's  to  Louie, 
which  in  his  clumsy  blundering  way  he  had  dropped 
somewhere  about  the  farm  buildings  or  the  house,  and 
had  not  been  able  to  find  again !  It  gave  him  a  cold 
sweat  to  think  that  in  his  absence  Hannah  might  have 
come  upon  it  and  drawn  her  own  conclusions.  As  he 
followed  out  this  possibility  in  his  mind,  his  step 
quickened  till  it  became  almost  a  run. 

Aye,  and  Hannah  had  been  ailing  of  late — there 
had  been  often  'summat  wrang  wi  her.'  Well,  they 
were  both  getting  into  years.  Perhaps  now  that 
Louie  with  her  sharp  tongue  and  aggravating  ways 
was  gone,  now  that  there  was  only  liini  to  do  for, 
Hannah  would  take  things  easier. 

He  opened  the  gate  into  the  farmyard  and  walked 
up  to  the  house  door  with  a  beating  heart.  It  struck 
him  as  strange  that  the  front  blinds  were  not  drawn, 
for  it  was  nearly  dark  and  the  storm  beat  against  the 
windows.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  fire  in  the  room, 
but  he  could  see  nothing  clearl}'.  He  turned  the 
handle  and  went  into  the  passage,  nuiking  a  clatter 
on  purpose.  But  nothing  stirred  in  the  house,  and  he 
pushed  open  the  kitchen  door,  which  stood  ajar,  filled 
with  a  vague  alarm. 

Hannah  was  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair,  by  the 
fire.  Beside  her  was  the  table  partly  spread  with  tea, 
which,  however,  had  been  untouched.     At  Reuben's 


362  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ir 

entrance  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  fixedly. 
In  the  dim  light — a  mixture  of  the  dying  fire  and  of 
the  moonlight  from  outside — he  could  not  see  her 
plainly,  but  he  felt  that  there  was  something  strange, 
and  he  ran  forward  to  her. 

'  Hannah,  are  yo  bad  ? — is  there  owt  wrang  wi  3-0?  ' 

Then  his  seeking  eye  made  out  a  crumpled  paper 
in  her  left  hand,  and  he  knew  at  once  that  it  must  be 
Davy's  letter. 

Before  he  could  speak  again  she  gave  him  a  push 
backwai'd  with  her  free  hand,  and  said  with  an  effort: 

'  Where's  t'  gell  ?  ' 

'Louie?  She's  left  i'  Manchester.  A've  found 
Davy,  Hannah.' 

There  was  a  pause,  after  which  he  said,  trembling : 

'  Shall  I  get  yo  summat,  Hannah  ?  ' 

A  hoarse  voice  came  out  of  the  dark : 

'  Ha  doon  wi  yo !  Yo  ha  been  leein  to  me.  Yo 
wor  seen  at  t'  station.' 

Reuben  sat  down. 

'Hannah,'  he  said,  'yo  mun  just  listen  to  me.' 

And  taking  his  courage  in  both  hands,  he  told 
everything  without  a  break  :  how  he  had  been  '  feeart ' 
of  what  Sandy  might  say  to  him  'at  th'  joodgment,' 
how  he  had  saved  and  lied,  and  how  now  he  had  seen 
David,  had  written  to  Mr.  Gurney,  and  stopped  the 
cheques  for  good  and  all. 

When  he  came  to  the  letter  to  Mr.  Gurney,  Hannah 
sat  suddenly  upright  in  her  chair,  grasping  one  arm 
of  it. 

'  It  shall  mak  noa  difference  to  tha,  a  tell  tha,'  he 
cried  hastily,  putting  up  his  hand,  fearing  he  knew 
not  Avhat,  '  nobbut  a  few  shillins  ony  way.  I'll  work 
for  tha  an  mak  it  up.' 

She  made  a  sound  which  turned  him  cold  with 
terror — a  sound  of  baffled  weakness,  pain,  vindictive 


niAP.  Mil  YOUTH  a63 

passion  all  in  one — then  she  fell  helplessly  to  one 
side  in  her  chair,  and  her  grey  head  dropped  on  her 
shoulder. 

In  another  moment  he  was  crying  madly  for  help  in 
the  road  outside.  For  long  there  was  no  answer — 
only  the  distant  roar  of  the  Downfall  and  the  sweep 
of  the  wiiul.  Then  a  labourer,  on  the  path  leading  to 
the  Wigsons'  farm,  heard  and  ran  up. 

An  hour  later  a  doctor  had  been  got  hold  of,  and 
Hannah  was  lying  upstairs,  tended  by  ]Mrs.  Wigson 
and  Reuben. 

'A  paralytic  seizure,'  said  the  doctor  to  Reuben. 
'This  woman  says  she's  been  failing  for  some  time 
past.  She's  lived  and  worked  hard,  ^Er.  Grieve ;  you 
know  that.     And  there's  been  some  shock.' 

Reuben  explained  incoherently.  The  doctor  did 
not  understand,  and  did  not  care,  being  a  dull  man 
and  comparatively  new  to  the  place.  He  did  what  he 
could,  said  she  would  recover — oh,  yes,  she  would 
recover ;  but,  of  course,  she  could  never  be  the  same 
woman  again.     Her  working  days  were  done. 

A  servant  came  over  from  Wigsons'  to  sit  up  with 
Reuben,  Mrs.  "Wigson  being  too  delicate  to  undertake 
it.  The  girl  went  to  lie  down  first  for  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  room  across  the  landing,  and  he  was  left  alone 
in  the  gaunt  room  with  his  wife.  Poor  quailing  soul ! 
As  he  sat  there  in  the  windy  darkness,  hour  after 
hour,  open-mouthed  and  open-eyed,  he  was  steeped  in 
terror — terror  of  the  future,  of  its  forlornness,  of  his 
own  feebleness,  of  death.  His  heart  clave  piteously  to 
the  unconscious  woman  beside  him,  for  he  had  nothing 
else. .  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  Lord  had  indeed  dealt 
hardly  with  him,  thus  to  strike  him  down  on  the  day 
of  his  great  atonement ! 


364  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  n 


CHAPTER   IX 

No  news  of  the  catastrophe  at  Needhani  Farm  reached 
the  brother  and  sister  in  Potter  .Street.  The  use  of 
the  pen  had  always  been  to  lleuben  one  of  the  main 
torments  and  mysteries  of  life,  and  he  had  besides  all 
those  primitive  instincts  of  silence  and  concealment 
which  so  often  in  the  peasant  nature  accompany  mis- 
fortune. His  brain-power,  moreover,  was  absorbed  by 
his  own  calamity  and  by  the  changes  in  the  routine  of 
daily  life  which  his  wife's  state  brought  upon  him,  so 
that  immediately  after  his  great  effort  of  reparation 
towards  them — an  effort  which  had  taxed  the  Avhole 
man  physically  and  mentally — his  brother's  children 
and  their  affairs  passed  for  a  while  strangely  and  com- 
pletely from  his  troubled  mind. 

^Meanwhile,  what  a  transformation  he  had  wrought 
in  their  fortunes  !  When  the  shock  of  his  parents' 
story  had  subsided  in  him,  and  that  other  shock  of 
jarring  temperaments,  which  the  first  hour  of  Louie's 
companionship  had  brought  with  it,  had  been  for  the 
time  forgotten  again  in  the  stress  of  plans  and  practi- 
cal detail,  David  felt  to  the  full  the  exhilaration  of  his 
new  prospects.  He  had  sprung  at  a  leap,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  from  the  condition  of  tlie  boy-adventurer  to 
that  of  the  man  of  affairs.  And  as  lie  looked  back 
upon  their  childhood  and  realised  that  all  the  time, 
instead  of  being  destitute  and  dependent  orphans,  they 
and  their  money  had  really  been  the  mainstay  of  Han- 
nah and  the  farm,  the  lad  seemed  to  cast  from  him 
the  long  humiliation  of  years,  to  rise  in  stature  and 
dignity.  That  old  skinflint  and  hypocrite,  Aunt  Han- 
nah !  With  the  usual  imperfect  sympathy  of  the 
young   he   did   not  much  realise  Reuben's   struggle. 


CHAP.  IX  YOUTH  <i6G 

But  he  boi-e  his  uncle  no  grudge  for  these  years'  delay. 
The  contrivances  and  hardships  of  his  Manchester 
life  had  been,  after  all,  enjoyment.  Without  them 
and  the  extravagant  self-reliance  they  had  developed 
in  him  his  })ride  and  ambition  would  have  run  less 
high.  And  at  this  moment  the  nerve  and  savour  of 
existence  caiue  to  him  from  pride  and  from  ambition. 

But  first  of  all  he  had  to  get  his  money.  As  soon 
as  Mr.  Gurney's  answer  to  Keuben's  letter  came, 
David  took  train  for  London,  made  his  way  to  the 
great  "West-End  shop  which  had  employed  his  father, 
and  saw  the  partner  who  had  taken  charge  of  Sandy's 
money  for  so  long.  Mr.  Gurney,  a  shrewd  and  pom- 
pous person,  was  interested  in  seeing  Grieve's  son,  in- 
quired what  he  was  about,  ran  over  the  terms  of  a  let- 
ter to  himself,  which  he  took  out  of  a  drawer,  and 
then,  with  a  little  flourish  as  to  his  own  deserts  in 
the  matter  of  the  guardianship  of  the  money — a  flour- 
ish neither  unnatural  nor  unkindly — handed  over  to 
the  lad  both  the  letter  and  a  cheque  on  a  London 
bank,  took  his  receipt,  talked  a  little,  but  with  a 
blunted  memory,  about  the  lad's  father,  gave  him  a 
little  general  business  advice,  asked  whether  his  sis- 
ter was  still  alive,  and  bade  him  good  morning.  Both 
were  satisfled,  and  the  young  man  left  the  office  with 
the  cheque  lying  warm  in  his  pocket,  looking  slowly 
and  curiously  round  the  shop  where  his  father  had 
earned  it,  as  he  walked  away. 

Outside  he  found  himself  close  to  Trafalgar  Square, 
and,  striking  down  to  the  river,  he  went  to  sit  on  the 
Embankment  and  ponder  the  enclosures  which  jMr. 
Gurney  had  given  him.  First  he  took  out  the  cheque, 
Avith  infinite  care,  lest  the  breeze  on  the  Embankment 
should  blow  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  spread  it  on  his 
knee.  600?. !  As  he  stared  at  each  letter  and  flourish 
his  eyes  widened  anew ;  and  when  he  looked  up  acrijss 


36G  TllK   HISTORY  OF   DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

the  grey  and  misty  river,  the  hgures  still  danced  be- 
fore him,  and  in  his  exultation  he  could  have  shouted 
the  news  to  the  passers  by.  Then,  when  the  precious 
paper  had  been  safely  stowed  away  again,  he  hesitat- 
ingly took  out  the  other — his  father's  dying  memo- 
randum on  the  subject  of  his  children,  so  he  had 
understood  Mr.  Gurney.  It  was  old  and  brown ;  it 
had  been  written  with  anguish,  and  it  could  only  be 
deciphered  Avith  difficulty.  There  had  been  no  will 
properly  so  called.  Sandy  had  placed  more  confidence 
in  '  the  firm  '  than  in  the  law,  and  had  left  behind  him 
merely  the  general  indication  of  his  wishes  in  the 
hands  of  the  partner  who  had  specially  befriended 
him.  The  provisions  of  it  were  as  Sandy  had  described 
them  to  Reuben  on  his  death-bed.  Especially  did  the 
father  insist  that  there  should  be  no  artificial  restric- 
tion of  age.  '  I  wanted  money  most  when  I  was  nine- 
teen, and  I  could  have  used  it  just  as  well  then  as  1 
could  at  any  later  time.' 

So  he  might  have  been  a  rich  man  at  least  a  year 
earlier.  Well,  much  as  he  had  loathed  Purcell,  he  was 
glad,  on  the  whole,  that  things  were  as  they  were. 
He  had  been  still  a  great  fool,  he  reflected,  a  year  ago. 

Then,  as  to  Louie,  the  letter  ran :  '  Let  Davy  have 
all  the  money,  and  let  him  manage  for  her.  I  won't 
divide  it ;  he  must  judge.  He  may  want  it  all,  and  it 
may  be  best  for  them  both  he  should  have  it.  He's  got 
a  good  heart ;  I  know  that ;  he'll  not  rob  his  sister.  1 
lay  it  on  him,  now  I'm  dying,  to  be  patient  with  her, 
and  look  after  her.  She's  not  like  other  children. 
But  it's  not  her  fault ;  it  was  born  in  her.  Let  him 
see  her  married  to  a  decent  man,  and  then  give  her 
what's  honestly  hers.  That  little  lad  has  nursed  me 
like  a  woman  since  I've  been  ill.  He  was  always  a 
good  lad  to  me,  and  I'd  like  him  to  know  when  he's 
grown  up  that  his  father  loved  him ' 


CHAF.  i.\  YUUTII  367 

But  here  the  poor  laboured  scrawl  came  to  au  end, 
save  for  a  few  incoherent  strokes.  David  thrust  it  back 
into  his  pocket.  His  cheek  was  red;  his  eyes  burnt; 
he  sat  for  lontj.  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  starin^,' 
at  the  February  river.  The  choking,  passionate  im- 
pulse to  comfort  his  father  he  had  felt  so  often  as  a 
child  was  there  again,  by  association,  alive  and  piteous. 

Suddenly  he  woke  up  with  a  start.  There,  to  either 
hand,  lay  the  bridges,  with  the  moving  figures  atop  and 
the  hurrying  river  below.  And  from  one  of  them  his 
mother  had  leapt  when  she  destroyed  herself.  In  the 
trance  of  thought  that  followed,  it  was  to  him  as  though 
he  felt  her  wild  nature,  her  lawless  blood,  stirring 
within  him,  and  realised,  in  a  fierce,  reluctant  way, 
that  he  was  hers  as  well  as  his  father's.  In  a  sense,  he 
shared  Keuben's  hatred  ;  for  he,  best  of  all,  knew  what 
she  had  made  his  father  suffer.  Yet  the  thought  of 
her  drew  his  restless  curiosity  after  it.  "Where  did  she 
come  from  ?  "^A'ho  were  her  kindred  ?  From  the  south 
of  France,  Reuben  thought.  The  lad's  imagination 
travelled  with  difficulty  and  excitement  to  the  far  and 
alien  land  whence  half  his  being  had  sprung.  A  few 
scraps  of  poetry  and  history  recurred  to  him — a  single 
tattered  volume  of  •  ^Nlonte  Cristo,'  which  he  had  lately 
bought  with  an  odd  lot  at  a  sale — but  nothing  that 
suggested  to  his  fancy  anything  like  the  peasant  farm 
in  the  Mont  Ventoux,  within  sight  of  Aries,  where 
Louise  Suveret's  penurious  childhood  had  been  actually 
cradled. 

Two  o'clock  struck  from  the  belfry  of  St.  Paul's, 
looming  there  to  his  left  in  the  great  bend  of  the  river. 
At  the  sound  he  shook  off  all  his  thoughts.  Let  him 
see  something  of  London.  He  had  two  hours  and  a 
half  before  his  train  from  Euston.  Westminster  first 
— a  hasty  glance ;  then  an  omnibus  to  St.  Paul's,  that 
he  might  look  down  upon  the  city  and  its  rush;  then 


308  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GIUEVE      book  ii 

iiorlli.  He  had  a  nui})  with  him,  and  his  quick  intelli- 
gence told  him  exactly  how  to  use  his  time  to  the  best 
advantage.  Years  afterwards  he  was  accustomed  to 
look  back  on  this  hour  spent  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus, 
which  was  making  its  difficult  way  to  the  Bank  through 
the  crowded  afternoon  streets,  as  one  of  the  stronii- 
impressions  of  his  youth.  Here  was  one  centre  of 
things;  Westminster  represented  another;  and  both 
stood  for  knowledge,  wealth,  and  power.  The  boy's 
liot  blood  rose  to  the  challenge.  His  foot  was  on  the 
ladder,  and  many  men  with  less  chances  than  he  had 
I'isen  to  the  top.  At  this  moment,  small  Manchester 
tradesman  that  he  was,  he  had  the  constant  presenti- 
ment of  a  wide  career. 

That  night  he  let  himself  into  his  own  door  some- 
Avhere  about  nine  o'clock.  "What  had  Louie  been  do- 
ing with  herself  all  day  ?  She  was  to  have  her  first 
lesson  from  Dora  Lomax  ;  but  she  must  have  been 
dnll  since,  unless  Dora  had  befriended  her. 

To  his  astonishment,  as  he  shut  the  door  he  heard 
voices  in  the  kitchen — Louie  and  John.  John,  the 
shy,  woman-hating  creature,  who  had  received  the 
news  of  Louie's  expected  advent  in  a  spirit  of  mingled 
irritation  and  depression — who,  after  his  first  startled 
look  at  her  as  she  passed  through  the  shop,  seemed  to 
David  to  have  fled  the  sight  of  her  whenever  it  was 
possible ! 

Louie  was  talking  so  fast  and  laughing  so  much 
that  neither  of  them  had  heard  David's  latchkey,  and 
in  his  surprise  the  brother  stood  still  a  anoment  in  the 
dark,  looking  round  the  kitchen-door,  which  stood  a 
little  open.  Louie  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with  some 
yards  of  flowered  cotton  stuff  on  her  knee,  at  which 
she  Avas  sewing ;  John  was  opposite  to  her  on  the  oak 
stool,  crouched  over  a  box  of  nails,  from  which  he  was 


CHAP.  IX  YOUTH  369 

laboriously  sorting  out  those  of  a  certain  size,  appar- 
ently at  her  bidding,  i'or  she  gave  him  sharp  directions 
from  time  to  time.  But  his  toil  was  intt^-mittent,  for 
whenever  her  sallies  were  louder  or  more  amusin<' 
than  usual  his  hand  paused,  and  he  sat  staring  at  her, 
his  small  eyes  expanding,  a  sympathetic  grin  stealing 
over  his  mouth. 

It  seemed  to  David  that  she  Avas  describing  her 
lover  of  the  winter;  he  caught  her  gesture  as  she 
illustrated  her  performance  with  dim  Wigson — the 
boxing  of  the  amorous  lout's  ears  in  the  lane  by  the 
Dye  Works.  Her  beautiful  curly  black  hair  was 
combed  to-night  into  a  sort  of  wild  halo  round  her 
brow  and  cheeks,  and  in  this  arrangement  counteracted 
the  one  fault  of  the  face — a  slightly  excessive  length 
from  forehead  to  chin.  l>ut  the  brilliance  of  the  eyes, 
the  redness  of  the  thin  lips  over  the  small  and  perfect 
teeth,  tlie  tlush  on  the  olive  cheek,  the  slender  neck, 
the  distinction  and  delicacy  of  every  sweeping  line 
and  curve — for  the  first  time  even  David  realised,  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  dark,  that  his  sister  was  an  ex- 
traordinar}'  beauty.  Strange  !  Her  manner  and  voice 
had  neither  natural  nor  acquired  rehnement ;  and  yet 
in  the  moulding  of  the  head  and  face  there  was  a 
dignity  and  perfection — a  touch,  as  it  were,  of  the 
grand  style — which  marked  her  out  in  a  northern 
crowd  and  riveted  the  northern  eye.  Was  it  the 
trace  of  another  national  character,  another  civilisa- 
tion, longer  descended,  less  mixed,  more  deeply  graven 
than  ours  ? 

But  what  was  that  idiot  John  doing  here  ? — the 
young  master  wanted  to  know.  He  coughed  loudly  and 
hung  up  his  hat  and  his  stick,  to  let  them  hear  that  he 
was  there.  The  pair  in  the  kitchen  started.  Louie 
sprang  up,  flung  down  her  work,  and  ran  out  to  him. 

'  Well,'  said  she  breathlessly,  '  have  you  got  it  ?  ' 

VOL.  I  2  b 


370  THE   HISTORY   OF  DAVID   GKIEVE      book  u 

'  Yes.' 

She  gave  a  little  shriek  of  excitement. 

'  Show  it  then.' 

'  There's  nothing  to  show  but  a  cheque.  It's  all 
right.     Is  there  anything  for  supper  ?  ' 

'  There's  some  bread  and  cheese  and  cold  apple-pie 
in  there/  said  Louie,  annoyed  with  him  already ;  then, 
turning  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  'Mr.  Dal  by,  I'll 
trouble  you  to  get  them  out.' 

With  awkward  alacrity  John  flew  to  do  her  bidding. 
When  the  lad  had  ransacked  the  cupboard  and  placed 
all  the  viands  it  contained  on  the  table,  he  looked  at 
David.  That  young  man,  with  a  pucker  in  his  brow, 
was  standing  by  the  fire  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
making  short  answers  to  Louie's  sharp  and  numerous 
questions. 

'  That's  all  I  can  find,'  said  John.  '  Shall  I  run  for 
something  ? ' 

'  Thanks,'  said  David,  still  frowning,  and  sat  liim 
down,  '  that  '11  do.' 

Louie  made  a  face  at  John  behind  her  brother's 
back.  The  assistant  slowly  flushed  a  deep  red.  In 
this  young  fellow,  with  his  money  buttoned  on  his 
breast,  both  he  and  Louie  for  the  first  time  realised 
the  master. 

'  Well,  good  night,'  he  said,  hesitating,  '  I'm  going.' 

David  jumped  up  and  went  with  him  into  the  pas- 
sage. 

'  Look  here,'  he  said  abruptly,  '  you  and  I  have  got 
some  business  to  talk  to-morrow.  I'm  not  going  to 
keep  you  slaving  here  for  nothing  now  that  I  can 
afford  to  pay  you.' 

'Are  you  going  to  turn  me  off  ?' said  the  other 
hastily. 

David  laughed.  The  cloud  had  all  cleared  from  his 
brow. 


CHAF.  IX  YOUTH  371 

'  Don't  be  such  a  precious  fool ! '  he  said.  '  Now  be 
off — and  seven  sliary.  I  must  go  at  it  like  ten  horses 
to-morrow. ' 

John  disappeared  into  the  night,  and  David  went 
back  to  his  sister.  He  found  her  looking  red  and 
excited,  and  sewing  energetically. 

'  Look  here  ! '  she  said,  lifting  a  threatening  eye  to 
liim  as  he  entered  the  room.  '  I'm  not  going  to  be 
treated  like  a  baby.  If  you  don't  tell  me  all  about 
that  money,  I'll  write  to  Mr.  Guruey  myself.  It's 
part  of  it  mine,  and  77/  k)ioic,  so  there ! ' 

M'll  tell  you  everything,'  he  said  quietly,  putting 
a  hand  into  his  coat  pocket  before  he  sat  down  to  his 
supper  again.  'Tliere's  the  cheque — and  there's  our 
father's  letter, — what  Mr.  Gurney  gave  me.  There 
was  no  proper  will — this  was  instead.' 

He  pretended  to  eat,  but  in  reality  he  watched  her 
anxiously  as  she  read  it.  The  result  was  very  mucli 
what  he  had  expected.  She  ran  breathlessly  through 
it,  then,  with  a  look  all  flame  and  fury,  she  broke 
out — 

'  Upon  my  word !  So  you're  going  to  take  it  all, 
and  I'm  to  be  beholden  to  you  for  every  penny.  I'd 
like  to  see  myself  ! ' 

'Now  look  here,  Louie,'  he  said,  firmly,  pushing 
back  his  chair  from  the  table,  'I  want  to  explain 
things  to  you.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all  about  my 
business,  and  what  I  think  of  doing,  and  then  you  can 
judge  for  yourself.     I'll  not  rob  you  or  anyone.' 

Whereupon  with  a  fierce  gesture  she  caught  up  her 
work  again,  and  he  fell  into  long  and  earnest  talk,  set- 
ting his  mind  to  the  task.  He  explained  to  her  that 
the  arrival  of  this  money — this  capital — made  just  all 
the  difference,  that  the  whole  of  it  would  be  infinitely 
more  useful  to  him  than  the  half,  and  that  he  proposed 
to  employ  it  both  for  her  benefit  and  his  own.     He 


372  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

had  already  cleared  out  the  commission  agent  from  the 
first  floor,  and  moved  down  the  lodgers — a  young  fore- 
man and  his  wife — from  the  attics  to  the  first-floor 
back.  Tliat  left  the  two  attics  for  himself  and  Louie, 
and  gave  him  the  front  first-floor  room,  the  best  room 
in  the  lionse,  for  an  extension  of  stock. 

'Why  don't  you  turn  those  people  out  altogether?  ' 
said  Louie,  impatiently.  '  They  pay  very  little,  and 
you'll  be  wanting  that  room  soon,  very  like.' 

'Well,  I  shall  get  it  soon,'  said  David  bluntly;  'but 
I  can't  get  it  now.  Mrs.  Mason's  bad ;  she's  going  to 
be  confined.' 

'  Well,  I  dare  say  she  is ! '  cried  Louie.  '  That  don't 
matter;  she  isn't  confined  yet.' 

David  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Then  his  face 
hardened. 

'  I'm  not  going  to  turn  her  out,  I  tell  you,'  he  said, 
and  immediatelv  returned  to  his  statement.  Well, 
there  were  all  sorts  of  ways  in  which  he  might  em- 
ploy his  money.  He  might  put  up  a  shed  in  the  back 
yard,  and  get  a  ^n-inting-press.  He  knew  of  a  press 
and  a  very  decent  fount  of  type,  to  be  had  extremely 
cheap.  John  was  a  capital  workman,  and  between 
them  they  might  reprint  some  of  the  scarce  local 
books  and  pamphlets,  which  were  always  sure  of  a 
sale.  As  to  his  stock,  there  were  endless  possibilities. 
He  knew  of  a  collection  of  rare  books  on  early 
America,  which  belonged  to  a  gentleman  at  Cheadle. 
He  had  been  negotiating  about  them  for  some  time. 
Xow  he  would  close  at  once ;  from  his  knowledge  of 
the  market  the  speculation  was  a  certain  one.  He 
was  also  inclined  to  largely  increase  his  stock  of  foreign 
books,  especially  in  the  technical  and  scientific  direc- 
tion. There  was  a  considerable  opening,  he  believed, 
for  such  books  in  Manchester ;  at  any  rate,  he  meant 
to  trv  for  it.     And  as  soon  as  ever  he  could  he  should 


CHAP.  IX  YOT'TII  373 

learn  German.  There  was  a  fellow — a  German  clerk 
— who  haunted  the  I'arlour.  who  would  teach  him  in 
exchange  for  English  lessons. 

So,  following  a  happy  instinct,  he  opened  to  her  all 
his  mind,  and  talked  to  her  as  though  the}-  were  part- 
ners in  a  firm.  The  event  proved  that  he  could  have 
done  nothing  better.  Very  early  in  his  exposition  she 
began  to  put  her  wits  to  his,  her  irritation  dropped, 
and  he  was  presently  astonished  at  the  intelligence 
she  showed.  Every  element  almost  in  the  problems 
discussed  was  unfamiliar  to  her,  yet  after  a  while  a 
listener  coming  in  might  have  thought  that  she  too 
had  been  Purcell'.s  apprentice,  so  nimbly  had  she 
gathered  up  the  details  involved,  so  quick  she  was  to 
see  David's  points  and  catch  his  phrases.  If  there 
was  no  moral  fellowship  between  them,  judging  from 
to-night,  there  bade  fair  to  be  a  comradeship  of  intelli- 
gence. 

'There  now/  he  said,  when  he  had  come  to  the  end 
of  his  budget,  "you  leave  your  half  of  the  mone}^  to 
me.  Mind.  I  agree  it's  your  half,  and  I'll  do  the  best 
I  can  with  it.  I'll  pay  you  interest  on  it  for  two  years, 
and  I'll  keep  you.  Then  we'll  see.  And  if  you  want 
to  improve  yourself  a  bit,  instead  of  going  to  work  at 
once,  I'll  pay  for  teachers.  And  look  here,  we'll  keep 
good  friends  over  it.' 

His  keen  eves  softened  to  a  charming,  half-melau- 
choly  smile.  Louie  took  no  notice  ;  she  was  absorbed 
in  meditation ;  and  at  the  end  of  it,  she  said  with  a 
long  breath — 

'  Well,  you  may  have  it,  and  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  the 
accounts.  But  you  needn't  think  I'll  sit  at  home 
••improving"  myself!  Xot  I.  I'll  do  that  church- 
work.  That  girl  gave  me  a  lesson  this  morning,  and 
I'm  going  again  to-morrow.' 

David  received  the  news  with  satisfaction,  remark- 


374  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       rook  ii 

ing  heartily  that  Dora  Lomax  was  a  real  good  sort, 
and  if  it  weren't  for  her  the  Parlour  and  Daddy  would 
soon  be  in  a  fix.  He  told  the  story  of  the  Parlour, 
dwelling  on  Dora's  virtues. 

'  But  she  is  a  crank,  though  ! '  said  Louie.  '  Why, 
if  you  make  free  with  her  things  a  bit,  or  if  you  call 
'em  by  the  wrong  names,  she'll  fly  at  you !  How's  any- 
body to  know  what  they're  meant  for  ? ' 

David  laughed,  and  got  up  to  get  some  books  he 
was  repairing.  As  he  moved  away  he  looked  back  a 
moment. 

'  I  say,  Louie,'  he  began,  hesitating,  '  that  fellow 
John's  worked  for  me  like  a  dozen,  and  has  never 
taken  a  farthing  from  me.  Don't  you  go  and  make  a 
fool  of  him.' 

A  flush  i^assed  over  Louie's  face.  She  lifted  her 
hand  and  tucked  away  some  curly  ends  of  long  hair 
that  had  fallen  on  her  shoulders. 

'  He's  like  one  of  Aunt  Hannah's  suet  rolies,'  she 
said,  after  a  minute,  with  a  gleam  of  her  white  teeth. 
'  Seems  as  if  some  one  had  tied  him  in  a  cloth  and 
boiled  him  that  shape.' 

Neither  of  them  cared  to  go  to  bed.  They  sat  up 
talking.  David  was  mending,  sorting,  and  pricing  a 
inimber  of  old  books  he  had  bought  for  nothing  at  a 
country  sale.  He  knew  enough  of  bookbinding  to 
do  the  repairing  with  much  skill,  showing  the  same 
neatness  of  finger  in  it  that  he  had  shown  years  ago 
in  the  carving  of  toy  boats  and  water-wheels.  Louie 
went  on  with  her  work,  which  proved  to  be  a  curtain 
for  her  attic.  She  meant  to  have  that  room  nice,  and 
she  had  been  out  buying  a  fcAv  things,  whereby  David 
understood— as  indeed  Reuben  had  said— that  she  had 
some  savings.  Moreover,  with  regard  to  certain  odd 
jobs  of  carpentering,  she  had  already  pressed  John 


CHAP.    IX 


YOUTH  375 


into  her  service,  which  explained  his  lingering  after 
hours,  and  his  eagerness  among  the  nails.  As  to  the 
furnitvu-p  David  had  bought  for  her,  on  v  hich,  in  the 
intervals  of  his  busy  days,  he  had  spent  some  time  and 
trouble,  and  of  which  he  was  secretly  proud,  humble 
and  cheap  as  it  was — she  took  it  for  granted.  He 
could  not  remember  that  she  had  said  any  'thank 
vou's  '  since  she  came. 

Still,  youth  and  comradeship  were  pleasant.  The 
den  in  which  they  sat  was  warm  with  light  and  tire, 
and  was  their  own.  Louie's  exultation,  too,  in  their 
change  of  fortune,  which  flashed  out  of  her  at  every 
turn,  was  infectious,  and  presently  his  spirits  rose 
with  hers,  and  the  two  lost  themselves  in  the  excite- 
ment of  large  schemes  and  new  horizons. 

After  a  time  he  found  himself  comparing  notes  with 
her  as  to  that  far-off  crisis  of  his  running  away. 

'  I  suppose  you  heard  somehow  about  Jim  Wigson 
and  me  ? '  he  asked  her,  his  pulse  quickening  after  all 
these  years. 

She  nodded  with  a  little  grin.  He  had  already 
noticed,  by  the  way,  that  she,  while  still  living  among 
the  moors,  had  almost  shaken  herself  free  of  the  Kin- 
der dialect,  whereas  it  had  taken  quite  a  year  of 
^Manchester  life  to  rub  off  his  own  Doric. 

'Well,  you  didn't  imagine' — he  went  on — 'I  was 
going  to  stop  after  that  ?  T  could  put  a  knife  between 
Jim's  ribs  now  when  I  think  of  it  I ' 

And,  pushing  his  book  away  from  him,  he  sat 
recalling  that  long  past  shame,  his  face,  glowing  with 
vindictive  memory,  framed  in  his  hands. 

'  I  don't  see,  though,  what  you  sneaked  off  for  like 
that   after   all    you'd   promised   me,'    she    said   with 


energy 


'iSTo,  it  was  hard  on  you,'   he  admitted.     'But  I 
couldn't  think  of  any  other  way  out.     I  was  mad  with 


376  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       rook  it 

everybody,  and  just  wanted  to  cut  and  run.  But  be- 
fore 1  hit  on  that  notion  about  Tom  '  (he  had  just  been 
explaining  to  her  in  detail,  not  at  all  to  her  satisfaction, 
his  device  for  getting  regular  news  of  her)  '  I  used 
to  spend  half  my  time  wondering  what  you'd  do.  I 
thought,  perhaps,  you'd  run  away  too,  and  that  would 
have  been  a  kettle  of  fish.' 

'  I  did  run  away,'  she  said,  her  wild  eyes  sparkling 
— 'twice.' 

'  Jiminy ! '  said  David  with  a  schoolboy  delight, 
'  let's  hear  ! ' 

Wliereupon  she  took  up  her  tale  and  told  him  a 
great  deal  that  was  still  quite  unknown  to  him.  She 
told  it  in  her  own  way  with  characteristic  blindnesses 
and  hardnesses,  but  the  truth  of  it  was  this.  The  very 
day  after  David's  departure  she  too  had  run  away,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Hannah  was  keeping  her  in  some- 
thing very  like  imprisonment.  She  supposed  that 
David  had  gone  to  Manchester,  and  she  meant  to  fol- 
low him  there.  But  she  had  been  caught  begging  the 
other  side  of  Glossop  by  a  policeman,  who  was  a 
native  of  Clough  End  and  knew  all  about  her. 

'  He  made  me  come  along  back,  but  he  must  have 
got  the  mark  on  his  wrist  still  where  I  bit  him,  1 
should  think,'  remarked  Miss  Louie,  with  a  satisfac- 
tion untouched  apparently  by  the  lapse  of  time. 

The  next  attempt  had  been  more  serious.  It  was 
some  months  afterwards,  and  by  this  time  she  was  in 
despair  about  David,  and  had  made  up  her  passionate 
mind  that  she  would  never  see  him  again.  But  she 
loathed  Hannah  more  and  more,  and  at  last,  in  the 
middle  of  a  snowy  February,  the  child  determined  to 
find  her  way  over  the  Peak  into  the  wild  valley  of  the 
Woodlands,  and  so  to  Ashopton  and  Sheffield,  in  which 
last  town  she  meant  to  go  to  service.  But  in  the 
effort  to  cross  the  plateau  of  the  Peak  she  very  nearly 


CHAP.    IX 


YOUTH  37' 


lost  her  life.  Long  before  she  came  in  sight  of  the 
Snake  Inn,  on  the  Woodlands  side,  she  sank  exhausted 
in  the  snow,  and,  but  for  some  Frimley  shepherds 
who  were  out  after  their  sheep,  she  would  have  drawn 
her  last  breath  in  that  grim  solitude.  They  carried 
her  down  to  Frimley  and  dropped  her  at  the  nearest 
shelter,  which  happened  to  be  Margaret  Dawson's 
cottage. 

Margaret  was  then  in  the  first  smart  of  her  widow- 
hood. 'Lias  was  just  dead,  and  she  was  withering 
physically  and  mentally  under  the  heart-hunger  of  her 
loss.  The  arrival  of  the  pallid,  half-conscious  child 
— David's  sister,  with  David's  eyes — for  a  time  dis- 
tracted and  appeased  her.  She  nursed  the  poor  waif, 
and  sent  word  to  Xeedham  Farm.  Reuben  came  for 
the  girl,  and  Margaret,  partly  out  of  compassion, 
partly  out  of  a  sense  of  her  own  decaying  strength, 
bribed  her  to  go  back  home  by  the  promise  of  teach- 
ing her  the  silk-weaving. 

Louie  learnt  the  trade  with  surprising  quickness, 
and  as  she  shot  up  in  stature  and  her  fingers  gained  in 
cunning  and  rapidity,  Margaret  became  more  bowed, 
helpless  and  '  fond,'  until  at  last  Louie  did  everything, 
brought  home  the  weft  and  warp,  set  it  up,  worked 
off  the  'cuts,'  and  took  them  to  the  warehouse  in 
Clough  End  to  be  paid ;  while  Margaret  sat  in  the 
chimney  corner,  pining  inwardly  for  'Lias  and  drop- 
ping deeper  day  by  day  into  the  gulf  of  age.  By  this 
time  of  course  various  money  arrangements  had  been 
made  between  them,  superintended  by  Margaret's 
brother,  a  weaver  in  the  same  village  who  found  it 
necessary  to  keep  a  very  sharp  eye  on  this  girl-appren- 
tice whom  Margaret  had  picked  up.  Of  late  Louie 
had  been  paying  Margaret  rent  for  the  loom,  together 
with  a  certain  percentage  on  the  weekly  earnings, 
practically  for  '  goodwill.'      And  on   this  small  sum 


378  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

the  widow  had  managed  to  live  and  keep  her  home, 
while  Louie  launched  gloriously  into  new  clothes, 
started  a  savings-bank  book,  and  snapped  her  fingers 
for  good  and  all  at  Hannah,  who  put  up  with  her, 
however,  in  a  sour  silence  because  of  Mr.  Gurney's 
cheques. 

'  And  Margaret  can't  do  anything  for  herself  now  ?  ' 
asked  David.  He  had  followed  the  story  with  eager- 
ness. For  years  the  remembrance  had  rankled  in  his 
mind  how  during  his  last  months  at  Kinder,  when 
'Lias  was  dying,  and  the  old  pair  were  more  in  want 
than  ever  of  the  small  services  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  render  them,  he  had  forgotten  and  neglected  his 
friends  because  he  had  been  absorbed  in  the  excite- 
ments of  '  conversion,'  so  that  when  Tom  Mullins  had 
told  him  in  general  terms  that  his  sister  Louie  was 
supporting  both  Margaret  and  herself,  the  news  had 
soothed  a  remorse. 

'I  should  just  think  not!'  said  Louie  in  answer  to 
his  question.  '  She's  gone  most  silly,  and  she  hasn't 
got  the  right  use  of  her  legs  either.' 

'  Poor  old  thing ! '  said  David  softly,  falling  into  a 
dream.  He  was  thinking  of  Margaret  in  her  active, 
happy  days  when  she  used  to  bake  scones  for  him,  or 
mend  his  clothes,  or  rate  him  for  '  worriting '  'Lias. 
Then  wakening  up  he  drew  the  book  he  was  binding 
towards  him  again.  '  She  must  have  been  precious 
glad  to  have  you  to  do  for  her,  Louie,'  he  said 
contentedly. 

'Do  for  her?'  Louie  opened  her  eyes.  'As  if  I 
could  be  worrited  with  her!  I  had  my  work  to  do, 
thank  you.  There  was  a  niece  used  to  come  in  and 
see  to  her.  She  used  to  get  in  my  way  dreadful  some- 
times. She'd  have  fits  of  thinking  she  could  work  the 
loom  again,  and  I'd  have  to  keep  her  away — regular 
frighten  her.' 


CHAP.    IX 


YOUTH  379 


David  started. 

'Who'll  work  the  loom  now?'  he  asked ;  his  look 
and  tone  altering  to  match  hers. 

'I'm  sure  I  don't  know,'  said  T.ouie,  carelessly. 
'  Very  like  she'll  not  get  anyone.  The  work's  been 
slack  a  long  while.' 

David  suddenly  drew  back  from  his  bookbinding. 

'Wlien  did  you  let  her  know,  Louie — about  me?' 
he  asked  quickly. 

'  Let  her  know  ?  Who  was  to  let  her  know  ?  Your 
letter  came  eight  o'clock  and  our  train  started  half- 
past  ten.  I'd  just  time  to  pitch  my  things  together 
and  that  was  about  all.' 

'  And  you  never  sent,  and  you  haven't  written  ?  ' 

'You  leave  me  alone,'  said  the  girl,  turning  instantly 
sulky  under  his  tone.     '  It's  nowt  to  you  what  I  do.' 

'  Why  ! '  he  said,  his  voice  shaking,  '  she'd  be  wait- 
ing and  waiting — and  she's  got  nothing  else  to  depend 
on.' 

'  There's  her  brother,'  said  Louie  angrily,  '  and  if  he 
won't  take  her,  there's  the  workhouse.  They'll  take 
her  there  fast  enough,  and  she  Avon't  know  anything 
about  it.' 

'The  ivorkhouse ."  cried  David,  springing  up,  in- 
censed past  bearing  by  her  callous  way.  'Margaret 
that  took  you  in  out  of  the  snow  ! — you  said  it  your- 
self. And  you — you'd  not  lift  a  linger — not  you — 
you'd  not  even  give  her  notice — "chuck  her  into  the 
workhouse — that's  good  enough  for  her  I "  It's  vile, 
— that's  what  it  is  ! ' 

He  stood,  choked  by  his  own  wrath,  eyeing  her 
fiercely — a  young  thunder  god  of  disdain  and  con- 
demnation. 

Louie  too  got  up — gathering  up  her  work  round 
her — and  gave  him  back  his  look  with  interest  before 
she  flung  out  of  the  room. 


380  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

'Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  sir,  or  I'll  let 
you  know,'  she  cried.  'I'll  not  be  called  over  the 
coals  by  you  nor  nobody.  I'll  do  what  I  please, — and 
if  you  don't  like  it  you  can  do  the  other  thing — so 
there — now  you  know  ! ' 

And  with  a  nod  of  the  utmost  provocation  and 
defiance  she  banged  the  door  behind  her  and  went  up 
to  bed. 

David  flung  down  the  pen  with  which  he  had  been 
lettering  his  books  on  the  table,  and,  drawing  a  chair 
up  to  the  fire,  he  sat  moodily  staring  into  the  embers. 
So  it  was  all  to  begin  again — the  long  wrangle  and  jar 
of  their  childhood.  Why  had  he  broken  silence  and 
taken  this  burden  once  more  upon  his  shoulders  ?  He 
had  a  moment  of  passionate  regret.  It  seemed  to  him 
more  than  he  could  bear.  No  gratitude,  no  kindness ; 
and  this  fierce  tongue ! 

After  a  while  he  fetched  pen  and  paper  and  began 
to  write  on  his  knee,  while  his  look  kindled  again. 
He  wrote  to  Margaret,  a  letter  of  boyish  effusion  and 
affection,  his  own  conscience  quickened  to  passion  by 
Louie's  lack  of  conscience.  He  had  never  forgotten 
her,  he  said,  and  he  wished  he  could  see  her  again. 
She  must  write,  or  get  some  one  to  write  for  her — and 
tell  him  what  she  was  going  to  do  now  that  Louie  had 
left  her.  He  had  been  angry  with  Louie  for  coming 
away  without  sending  word.  But  what  he  wanted  to 
say  was  this :  if  Margaret  could  get  no  one  to  work 
the  loom,  he,  David,  would  pay  her  brother  four  shil- 
lings a  week,  for  six  months  certain,  towards  her  ex- 
penses if  he  would  take  her  in  and  look  after  her. 
She  must  ask  somebody  to  write  at  once  and  say  what 
was  to  be  done.  If  her  brother  consented  to  take  her, 
David  would  send  a  post-office  order  for  the  first 
month  at  once.  He  was  doing  well  in  his  business, 
and  there  would  be  no  doubt  about  the  payments. 


CHAP.  IX  YOrTir  381 

He  made  his  proposal  with  a  haste  and  impulsive- 
ness very  unlike  the  cool  judgment  he  had  so  far 
shown  in  his  business.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to 
negotiate  with  the  brother  who  might  be  quite  well 
able  to  maintain  his  sister  without  help.  Besides  he 
remembered  him  as  a  hard  man  of  whom  both  Mar- 
garet and  'Lias — soft,  sensitive  creatures — were  both 
more  or  less  afraid.  No,  there  should  be  no  doubt 
about  it — not  a  day's  doubt,  if  he  could  help  it !  He 
could  help,  and  he  would;  and  if  they  asked  him 
more  he  would  give  it.  Nearly  midnight !  But  if  he 
ran  out  to  the  General  Post  Office  it  would  be  in  time. 

When  he  had  posted  it  and  was  walking  home,  his 
anger  was  all  gone.  But  in  its  stead  was  the  smart  of 
a  baffled  instinct — the  hunger  for  sympathy,  for  love, 
for  that  common  everyday  life  of  the  affections  which 
had  never  been  his,  while  it  came  so  easilv  to  other 
people. 

In  his  chafing  distress  he  felt  the  curb  of  something 
unknown  before ;  or,  rather,  what  had  of  late  taken 
the  pleasant  guise  of  kinship  and  natural  affection 
assumed  to-night  another  and  a  sterner  aspect,  and  in 
this  strait  of  conduct,  that  sheer  •  imperative '  \vhich 
we  carry  within  us  made  itself  for  the  first  time  heard 
and  realised. 

'I  have  done  my  duty  and  must  abide  by  it.  I 
must  bear  with  her  and  look  after  her.' 

Why  ? 

'  Because  my  father  laid  it  on  me  ?  ' — 

And  because  there  is  a  life  within  our  life  which 
urges  and  presses? — because  we  are  'not  our  own'  ? 
But  this  is  an  answer  which  implies  a  whole  theology. 
And  at  this  moment  of  his  life  David  had  not  a  parti- 
cle or  shred  of  theology  about  him.  Except,  indeed, 
that,  like  Voltaire,  he  was  graciously  inclined  to  think 
a  First  Cause  probable. 


382  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

Next  day  this  storm  blew  over,  as  storms  do. 
Louie  came  down  early  and  made  the  porridge  for 
breakfast.  When  David  appeared  she  carried  things 
off  with  a  high  hand,  and  behaved  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  ;  but  anyone  accustomed  to  watch  her  would 
have  seen  a  certain  quick  nervousness  in  her  black, 
Avild  bird's  eyes.  As  for  David,  after  a  period  of 
gruffness  and  silence,  he  passed  by  degrees  into  his 
usual  manner.  Louie  spent  the  day  with  Dora,  and 
he  went  off  to  Cheadle  to  conclude  the  purchase  of 
that  collection  of  American  books  he  had  described  to 
Louie.  But  first,  on  his  way,  he  walked  proudly  into 
Heywood's  bank  and  opened  an  account  there,  receiv- 
ing the  congratulations  of  an  old  and  talkative  cashier, 
who  already  knew  the  lad  and  was  interested  in  his 
prospects,  with  the  coolness  of  one  who  takes  good 
fortune  as  his  right. 

In  the  afternoon  he  was  busy  in  the  shop — not  too 
busy,  however,  to  notice  John.  What  ailed  the  lad  ? 
While  he  was  inside,  as  soon  as  the  door  did  but  creak 
in  the  wind  he  sprang  to  open  it,  but  for  the  most  part 
he  preferred  to  stand  outside  watching  the  stall  and 
the  sti-eet.  When  Louie  appeared  about  five  o'clock — 
for  her  hours  with  Dora  were  not  yet  regular — he 
forthwith  became  her  slave.  She  set  him  to  draw  up 
the  fire  while  she  got  the  tea,  and  then,  without  tak- 
ing any  notice  of  David,  she  marched  John  upstairs  to 
help  her  hang  her  curtains,  lay  her  carpet,  and  nail  up 
the  coloured  fashion  plates  and  newspaper  prints  of 
royalties  or  beauties  with  which  she  was  adorning  the 
bare  walls  of  the  attic. 

When  all  her  additions  had  been  made  to  David's 
original  stock;  when  the  little  deal  dressing-table 
and  glass  had  been  draped  in  the  cheapest  of  muslins 
over  the  pinkest  of  calicoes  ;  when  the  flowery  cur- 
tains had  been  tied  back  with  blue  ribbons ;  when  the 


CHAP.  IX  YOUTH  383 

china  vases  on  the  mantelpiece  had  been  filled  with 
nodding  plumes  of  dyed  grasses,  mostly  of  a  rosy  red ; 
and  a  long  glass  in  a  somewhat  damaged  condition,  but 
still  presenting  enough  surface  to  enable  Miss  Louie  to 
study  herself  therein  from  top  to  toe,  had  been  propped 
against  the  wall ;  there  was  and  could  be  nothing  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Potter  Street,  so  John  reflected, 
as  he  furtively  looked  aboiit  him,  to  vie  with  the 
splendours  of  Miss  Grieve's  apartment.  There  was 
about  it  a  sensuousness,  a  deliberate  quest  of  luxury 
and  gaiety,  which  a  raw  son  of  poverty  could  feel 
though  he  could  not  put  it  into  words.  Xo  Manches- 
ter girl  he  had  ever  seen  would  have  cared  to  spend 
her  money  in  just  this  way. 

'Now  that  's  real  nice,  Mr.  Dalby,  and  I'm  just 
obliged  to  you,'  said  Louie,  with  patronising  emj)hasis, 
as  she  looked  round  upon  his  labours.  '  1  do  like  to 
get  a  man  to  do  things  for  you — he's  got  some  strength 
in  liiui — not  like  a  gcll  !' 

And  she  looked  down  at  herself  and  at  the  long, 
thin-fingered  hand  against  her  dress,  with  affected 
contempt.  John  looked  at  her  too,  but  turned  his 
head  away  again  quickly. 

'  And  yet  you  're  pretty  strong  too,  Miss,'  he  ven- 
tured. 

'  Well,  })erhaps  I  am,'  she  admitted ;  '  and  a  good 
thing  too,  when  you  come  to  think  of  the  rough  time 
I  had  over  there ' — and  she  jerked  her  head  behind  her 
— '  ever  since  Davy  ran  away  from  me.' 

*  Ran  away  from  you,  j\Iiss  ?  ' 

She  nodded,  pressing  her  lips  together  with  the 
look  of  one  who  keeps  a  secret  from  the  highest  mo- 
tives. But  she  brought  two  beautiful  plaintive  eyes  to 
bear  on  John,  and  he  at  once  felt  sure  that  David's 
conduct  had  been  totally  inexcusable. 


'V 


Then  suddenly   she   broke   into  a  laugh.     She  was 


384  THE   ULSTOKY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  ii 

sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  swinging  her  feet  lightly 
backwards  and  forwards. 

'  Look  here ! '  she  said,  dropping  her  voice,  and 
looking  ronnd  at  the  door.  '  Do  you  know  a  lot  about 
Davy's  affairs  ? — you  're  a  great  friend  of  his,  aren't 
you  ? ' 

'  I  s'i:)ose  so,'  said  the  lad,  awkwardly. 

'  Well,  has  he  been  making  up  to  anybody  that  you 
know  of? ' 

John's  invisible  eyebrows  stretched  considerably. 
He  was  so  astonished  that  he  did  not  readily  find  an 
answer. 

'Why,  of  course,  I  mean,'  said  Louie,  impatiently, 
'  is  he  in  love  with  anybody  ?  ' 

'  Not  that  I  know  of.  Miss.' 

'Well,  then,  there's  somebody  in  love  with  him,'  said 
Louie,  maliciously;  'and  some  day,  Mr.  Dalby,  if  we 
get  a  chance,  perhaps  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.' 

The  charming  confidential  smile  she  threw  him  so 
bewildered  the  lad  that  he  hardly  knew  where  he  was. 

But  an  exasperated  shout  of  '  John '  from  the  stairs 
recalled  him,  and  he  rushed  downstairs  to  help  David 
deal  with  a  cargo  of  books  just  arrived. 

That  evening  David  ran  up  to  the  Parlour  for  half 
an  hour,  to  have  a  talk  with  Daddy  and  find  out  what 
Dora  thought  of  Louie.  He  had  sent  a  message  by 
Louie  about  Reuben's  revelations,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  since  Daddy  had  not  been  to  look  him  up 
since,  that  incalculable  person  might  be  offended  that 
he  had  not  brought  his  great  news  in  person.  Besides, 
he  had  a  very  strong  curiosity  to  know  what  had  hap- 
pened after  all  to  Lucy  Purcell,  and  whether  anything 
had  been  commonly  observed  of  Purcell's  demeaiiour 
under  the  checkmate  administered  to  him.  For  the 
past  few  days  he  had  been  wholly  absorbed  in  his  own 


CHAP.   IX 


Yorni  385 


affairs,  and  during  the  previous  week  he  had  seen 
nothing  of  either  Daddy  or  Dora,  except  that  at  a  casual 
meeting  in  the  street  with  Daddy  that  worthy  had 
described  his  attack  on  rurcell  with  a  gusto  worthy 
of  his  Irish  extraction. 

He  found  the  restaurant  just  shutting,  and  Daddy 
apparently  on  the  wing  for  the  '  White  Horse  '  parlour, 
to  judge  from  the  relief  which  showed  in  Dora's  worn 
look  as  she  saw  her  father  lay  down  his  hat  and  stick 
again  and  fall  '  chaffing '  with  David. 

For,  with  regard  to  David's  change  of  position,  the 
landlord  of  the  Parlour  was  in  a  very  testy  frame  of 
mind. 

'  Six  hundred  pounds  ! '  he  growled,  when  the  young 
fellow  sitting  cross-legged  by  the  fire  had  made  an  end 
of  describing  to  them  both  his  journey  to  London. 
'  H'm,  your  fun's  over :  any  fool  can  do  on  six  hun- 
dred pounds  I ' 

'Thank  you.  Daddy,'  said  the  lad,  with  a  sarcastic 
lip.  '  As  for  you,  I  wonder  you  have  the  face  to  talk  ! 
Who's  coining  money  here,  I  should  like  to  know  ? ' 

Dora  looked  up  with  a  start.  Her  father  met  her 
look  with  a  certain  hostility  and  an  obstinate  shake  of 
his  thin  shoulders. 

'  Davj-,  me  boy,  you're  that  consated  by  now,  you'll 
not  be  for  taking  advice.  But  I'll  give  it  yon,  bedad, 
to  take  or  to  leave  !  Xever  pitch  your  tent,  sir,  where 
you  can't  strike  it  when  you  want  to  I  But  there's 
where  your  beastly  money  comes  in.  Xobody  need 
look  to  you  now  for  any  comprehension  of  the  finer 
sentiments  of  man.' 

'What  do  vou  mean,  Daddv?' 

'  Never  you  mind,'  said  the  old  vagrant,  staring 
sombrely  at  the  floor — the  spleen  in  person.  '  Only  I 
Avant  ni}'  freedom,  I  tell  you — and  a  bit  of  air,  some- 


times— and  by  gad  I'll  have  'em! ' 

VOL.   I 


2c 


386  THE   HISTOEY  OF   DAVID   mUEVE       hook  ir 

And  throwing  back  his  grey  head  with  a  jerk  lie 
fixed  an  angry  eye  on  Dora.  Dora  liad  grown  paler, 
but  she  said  nothing  ;  her  fingers  went  steadily  on 
with  her  work  ;  from  early  morning  now  till  late  night 
neither  they  nor  she  were  ever  at  rest.  After  a  min- 
ute's silence  Lomax  walked  to  the  door,  flung  a  good- 
night behind  him  and  disappeared. 

Dora  hastily  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  then 
threaded  her  needle  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
But  David  was  perplexed  and  sorry.  How  white  and 
thin  she  looked,  to  be  sure !  That  old  lunatic  must 
be  worrying  her  somehow. 

He  moved  his  chair  nearer  to  Dora. 

'Is  there  anything  wrong,  Miss  Dora?'  he  asked 
her,  dropping  his  voice. 

She  looked  up  with  a  quick  gratitude,  his  voice  and 
expression  putting  a  new  life  into  her. 

'  Oh  !  I  don't  know,'  she  said,  gently  and  sadly. 
'  Father's  been  very  restless  these  last  few  weeks.  I 
can't  keep  him  at  home.  And  I'm  not  always  dull 
like  this.  I've  done  my  best  to  cheer  him  up.  And  I 
don't  think  there's  much  amiss  with  the  Parlour — j^et 
— only  the  outgoings  are  so  large  every  day.  I'm 
always  feeart ' 

She  paused,  and  a  visible  tremor  ran  through  her. 
David's  quick  eye  understood  the  signs  of  strain  and 
fatigue,  and  he  felt  a  brotherly  pity  for  her — a  softer, 
more  normal  feeling  than  Louie  had  ever  called  out  in 
him. 

'I  say,' he  said  heartily,  'if  there's  anything  I  can 
do,  you'll  let  me  know,  won't  you  ?  ' 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  then  turned  to  her  work 
again  in  a  hurry,  afraid  of  her  own  eyes  and  lips,  and 
Avhat  they  might  be  saying. 

'  Oh !  I  dare  say  I  fret  myself  too  mueh,'  she  said, 
with  the  tone  of  one  determined  to  be  cheered.     And. 


CHAP.  IX  YOUTH  387 

by  way  of  protecting  her  own  quivering  heart,  she  fell 
upon  the  subject  of  Louie.  She  showed  the  brother 
some  of  Luui(;'s  first  attempts — some  of  tlie  stitches 
she  had  been  learning. 

'  She's  that  quick ! '  she  said,  wondering.  '  In  a  few 
days  I'm  going  to  trust  her  with  that,'  and  she  pointed 
to  a  fine  old  piece  of  Venetian  embroidery,  which  had 
to  be  largely  re])aired  before  it  could  be  made  up  into 
an  altar-cloth  and  presented  to  St.  Damian's  by  a  rich 
and  devoted  member  of  the  congregation. 

'  Does  she  get  in  your  way  ? '  the  brother  in- 
quired. 

'  X-o/  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  paying  particular 
attention  to  a  complicated  stitch.  "  She'll  get  used  to 
me  and  the  work  soon.  She'll  make  a  first-rate  hand 
if  she's  patient  a  bit.  They'll  be  glad  to  take  her  on 
at  the  shop.' 

'  But  you'll  not  turn  her  out  ?  You'll  let  her  work 
here,  alongside  of  you  ?  '  said  the  young  man  eagerly. 
He  had  just  met  Louie,  in  the  dark,  walking  up  Mar- 
ket Street  with  a  seedy  kind  of  gentleman,  who  he 
had  reason  to  know  was  a  bad  lot.  John  was  off  his 
head  about  her,  and  no  longer  of  much  use  to  any- 
body, and  in  these  few  days  other  men,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  had  begun  to  hang  about.  The  difficulties  of 
his  guardianship  were  thickening  upon  him,  and  he 
clung  to  Dora's  help. 

'  No  ;  I'll  not  turn  her  out.  She  may  work  here  if 
she  wants  to,'  said  Dora,  with  the  same  slowness. 

And  all  the  time  she  was  saying  to  herself  passion- 
ately that,  if  Louie  Grieve  had  not  been  his  sister,  she 
shoidd  nevei'  have  set  foot  in  that  room  again!  In 
the  two  days  they  had  been  together  Louie  had  out- 
raged almost  every  feeling  the  other  possessed.  And 
there  was  a  burning  dread  in  Dora's  mind  that  even 
the  secret  of  her  heart  of  hearts  had  been  somehow 


388  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GKIEVE       book  ii 

discovered  by  the   girl's  hawk-like    sense.     But  she 
had  promised  to  help  him,  and  she  would. 

'  You  must  let  me  know  Avhat  I  owe  you  for  teach- 
ing her  and  introducing  her,'  said  David  firmly.  '  Yes, 
you  must,  Miss  Dora.  It's  business,  and  you  mustn't 
make  any  bones  about  it.  A  girl  doesn't  learn  a  trade 
and  get  an  opening  found  her  for  nothing.' 

'  Uli  no,  nonsense  I '  she  said  quickly,  but  with  de- 
cision equal  to  his  own.  '  I  won't  take  anything.  She 
don't  want  much  teaching ;  she's  so  clever ;  she  sees  a 
thing  almost  before  the  words  are  out  of  your  month. 
Look  here,  ^Mr.  Grieve,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Lucy.' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  flushing.     He,  too,  coloured. 

'  Well,'  he  said ;  '  that's  what  I  wanted  to  ask 
you.' 

She  told  him  the  whole  story  of  Lucy's  flight  from 
her  father,  of  her  illness  and  departure,  of  the  prob- 
able stepmother. 

'Old  brute!'  said  David  between  his  teeth.  'I 
say,  Miss  Dora,  can  nothing  be  done  to  make  him 
treat  her  decently  ?  ' 

His  countenance  glowed  with  indignation  and  dis- 
gust.    Dora  shook  her  head  sadl}'. 

'I  don't  see  what  anyone  can  do;  and  the  worst  of 
it  is  she'll  be  such  a  long  while  getting  over  it.  I've 
had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning,  and  she  says  the 
Hastings  doctor  declares  she  must  stay  there  a  year 
in  the  warm  and  not  come  home  at  all,  or  she'll  be 
going  off  in  a  decline.  I  know  Lucy  gets  nervous 
about  herself,  but  it  do  seem  bad.' 

David  sat  silent,  lost  in  a  medley  of  feelings,  most 
of  them  unpleasant.  Now  that  Lucy  Purcell  was  at 
the  other  end  of  England,  both  her  service  to  him  and 
his  own  curmudgeon  behaviour  to  her  loomed  doubly 
large. 

'I  say,  Avill  yoTi  give  me  her  address?'  he  said  at 


niAP.  X 


YOUTH  380 


last.  '  I've  got  a  smart  book  I've  had  bound  for  her. 
I'd  like  to  send  it  to  her.' 

Dora  went  to  the  table  and  wrote  it  for  him.  Then 
he  got  up  to  go. 

'Upon  my  word,  you  do  look  tired,'  he  broke  out. 
•  Can't  you  go  to  bed  ?     It  is  hard  lines.' 

Which  last  words  applied  to  that  whole  situation  of 
hers  with  her  father  which  he  was  beginning  dimly  to 
discern.  In  his  boyish  admiration  and  compassion  he 
took  both  her  hands  in  his.  Dora  withdrew  them 
quickly. 

<0h,  I'll  pull  through:'  she  said,  simply,  and  he 
■went. 

When  she  had  closed  the  door  after  him  she  stood 
looking  at  the  clock  with  her  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  her. 

'  How  much  longer  will  father  be  ?  '  she  said,  sigh- 
ing. '  Oh,  I  think  I  told  him  all  Lucy  wanted  me  to 
say  ;  I  think  I  did.' 


CHAPTEK    X 

Three  or  four  months  passed  away.  During  that 
period  David  had  built  up  a  shed  in  his  back  yard 
and  had  established  a  printing-press  there,  with  a 
respectable,  though  not  extensive,  fount  of  type — 
bought,  all  of  it,  secondhand,  and  a  bargain.  .lohn 
and  he  spent  every  available  moment  there,  and  dur- 
ing their  first  experiments  would  often  sit  up  half  the 
night  working  off  the  sheets  of  their  earliest  produc- 
tions, in  an  excitement  which  took  no  count  of  fatigue. 
They  began  with  reprinting  some  scarce  local  tracts, 
with  which  they  did  well.  Then  David  diverged 
into  a  Eadical  pamphlet  or  two  on  the  subject  of  the 
coming  Education  Bill,  finding  authors  for  them  among 


390  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

the  leading  ministers  of  the  town ;  and  these  timely 
wares,  being  freely  pushed  on  the  stall,  on  tlie  whole 
paid  their  expenses,  with  a  little  profit  to  spare — the 
labour  being  reckoned  at  nothing.  And  now  David 
was  beginning  to  cherish  the  dream  of  a  new  history 
of  Manchester,  for  which  among  his  own  collections 
he  already  possessed  a  great  deal  of  fresh  material. 
But  that  would  take  time  and  money.  He  must  push 
his  business  a  bit  further  first. 

That  business,  however,  was  developing  quite  as 
rapidly  as  the  two  pairs  of  arms  could  keep  pace  with 
it.  Almost  everything  the  young  fellow  touched  suc- 
ceeded. He  had  instinct,  knoAvledge,  a  growing  tact, 
and  an  indomitable  energy,  and  these  are  the  qualities 
which  make,  which  are  in  themselves,  success.  The 
purchase  of  the  collection  at  Cheadle,  bearing  on  the 
early  history  of  American  states  and  towns,  not  only 
turned  out  well  in  itself,  but  brought  him  to  the  notice 
of  a  big  man  in  London,  who  set  the  clever  and  daring 
beginner  on  several  large  quests  both  in  Lancashire 
and  Yorkshire  by  which  both  profited  considerably. 
In  another  direction  he  was  extending  his  stock  of 
foreign  scientific  and  technical  books,  especially  such 
as  bore  upon  the  industries  of  Northern  England.  Old 
Barbier,  who  took  a  warmer  and  warmer  interest  in 
his  pupil's  progress,  kept  him  constantly  advised  as  to 
French  books  through  old  friends  of  his  own  in  Paris, 
who  were  glad  to  do  the  exile  a  kindness. 

*  But  why  not  run  over  to  Paris  for  yourself,  form 
some  connections,  and  look  about  you  ? '  suggested 
Barbier. 

Why  not,  indeed  ?  The  young  man's  blood,  quick 
with  curiosity  and  adventure,  under  all  his  tradesman's 
exterior,  leapt  at  the  thought.  But  prudence  restrained 
him  for  the  present. 

As  for  German  books,  he  was  struggling  with  the 


CHAP.  X  YOUTH  391 

language,  and  feeling  his  way  besides  through  innu- 
merable catalogues.  How  he  found  time  for  all  the 
miscellaneous  acquisitions  of  these  months  it  would 
be  ditticult  to  say.  But  whether  in  his  free  times  or 
in  trade-hours  he  was  hardly  ever  without  a  book  or  a 
catalogue  beside  him,  save  when  he  was  working  the 
printing-press ;  and,  although  his  youth  would  every 
now  and  then  break  out  against  the  confinement  he 
imposed  upon  it,  and  drive  him  either  to  long  tramps 
over  the  moors  on  days  when  the  spring  stirred  in  the 
air,  or  to  a  spell  of  theatre-going,  in  which  Louie 
greedily  shared,  yet,  on  the  whole,  his  force  of  pur- 
pose was  amazing,  and  the  success  which  it  brought 
with  it  could  only  be  regarded  as  natural  and  inevi- 
table. He  was  beginning  to  be  well  known  to  the  old- 
established  men  in  his  own  business,  who  could  not 
but  show  at  times  some  natural  jealousy  of  so  quick 
a  rise.  The  story  of  his  relations  to  Purcell  spread, 
and  the  two  were  watched  with  malicious  interest  at 
many  a  book-sale,  when  the  nonchalant  self-reliance 
and  prosperous  look  of  the  younger  drove  the  elder 
man  again  and  again  into  futile  attempts  to  injure 
and  circumvent  him.  It  was  noticed  that  never  till 
now  had  Turcell  lost  his  head  Avith  a  rival. 

Nevertheless,  the  lad  had  far  fewer  enemies  than 
might  have  been  expected.  His  manner  had  always 
been  radiantly  self-confident ;  but  there  was  about  him 
a  conspicuous  element  of  quick  feeling,  of  warm 
humanity,  which  grew  rather  than  diminished  with 
his  success.  He  was  frank,  too,  and  did  not  trj'  to 
gloss  over  a  mistake  or  a  failure.  Perhaps  in  his 
lordly  way  he  felt  he  could  afford  himself  a  few  now 
and  then,  he  was  so  much  cleverer  than  his  neighbours. 

Upon  no  one  did  David's  development  produce 
more  effect  than  upon  Mr.  Ancrum.  The  lame,  soli- 
tary minister,  who  only  got  through  his  week's  self- 


392  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

appointed  tasks  at  a  constaut  expense  of  bodily  tor- 
ment, was  dazzled  and  bewildered  by  the  spectacle 
of  so  much  vitality  spent  with  such  ease  and  im- 
punity. 

'  How  many  years  of  Manchester  must  one  give 
him?'  said  Ancrum  to  himself  one  night,  when  he 
was  making  his  way  home  from  a  reading  of  the 
'  Electra '  with  David.  '  That  six  hundred  pounds  has 
quickened  the  pace  amazingly  !  Ten  years,  perhaps. 
Then  London,  and  anything  you  like.  Bookselling 
slips  into  publishing,  and  publishing  takes  a  man  into 
another  class,  and  within  reach  of  a  hundred  new  pos- 
sibilities. Some  day  T  shall  be  bragging  of  having 
taught  him !  Taught  him !  He'll  be  turning  the 
tables  on  me  precious  soon.  Caught  me  out  twice 
to-night,  and  got  through  the  tough  bit  of  the  chorus 
much  better  than  I  did.  How  does  he  do  it  ? — and 
with  that  mountain  of  other  things  on  his  shoulders  ? 
There's  one  speck  in  the  fruit,  however,  as  far  as  I 
can  see — Miss  Louie  ! ' 

Erom  the  first  moment  of  his  introduction  to  her, 
Ancrum  had  taken  particular  notice  of  David's  hand- 
some sister,  who,  on  her  side,  had  treated  her  old  min- 
ister and  teacher  with  a  most  thoroughgoing  indif- 
ference. He  saw  that  now,  after  some  three  months 
of  life  together,  the  brother  and  sister  had  developed 
separate  existences,  which  touched  in  two  points  only 
— a  common  liking  for  Dora  Loniax,  and  a  common 
keenness  for  Inisiness. 

Here,  in  this  matter  of  business,  they  were  really  at 
one.  David  kept  nothing  from  her,  and  consulted  her 
a  good  deal.  She  had  the  same  shrewd  head  that  he 
had,  and  as  it  was  her  money  as  well  as  his  that  was 
in  question  she  was  determined  to  know  and  to  under- 
stand what  he  was  after.  Anybody  who  had  come 
upon  the  pair  on  the  nights  when  they  made  up  their 


niAr.  X  YOUTH  39.3 

accounts,  their  dark  heads  touching  under  the  lamp, 
might  have  gone  away  moralising  on  the  charms  of 
fraternal  affection. 

And  all  tlie  while  David  had  once  niore  tacitly 
given  up  the  attempt  either  to  love  her  or  to  control 
her.  riow  indeed  could  lie  control  her  ?  He  was 
barely  two  years  older,  and  she  had  a  will  of  iron.  She 
made  disreputable  friends  whom  he  loathed  the  sight 
of.  But  all  he  coidd  do  was  to  keep  them  out  of  the 
house.  She  led  John  by  this  time  a  dog's  life.  From 
the  temptress  she  had  become  the  tease  and  tyrant, 
and  the  clumsy  fellow,  consumed  with  feverish  pas- 
sion, slaved  for  her  whenever  she  was  near  him  with 
hardly  the  reward  of  a  kind  look  or  a  civil  word  in  a 
fortnight.  David  set  his  teeth  and  tried  to  recover 
possession  of  his  friend.  And  as  long  as  they  two 
were  at  the  press  or  in  the  shop  together  alone,  John 
was  often  his  old  self,  and  would  laugh  out  in  the  old 
way.  But  no  sooner  did  Louie  appear  than  he  fol- 
lowed her  about  like  an  animal,  and  David  could  make 
no  more  of  him.  Whenever  any  dispute,  too,  arose 
between  the  brother  and  sister,  he  took  her  part, 
whatever  it  might  be,  with  an  acrimony  which  pushed 
David's  temper  hard. 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  so  Ancrum  thought,  the  brother 
showed  a  wonderful  patience.  He  was  evidently 
haunted  by  a  sense  of  responsibility  towards  his  sister, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  both  tormented  and  humiliated 
by  his  incompetence  to  manage  or  influence  her.  It 
was  curious,  too,  to  watch  how  by  antagonism  and  by 
the  constant  friction  of  their  life  together,  certain 
qualities  in  her  developed  certain  others  in  him.  Her 
callousness,  for  instance,  did  but  nurture  a  sensitive 
humanity  in  him.  She  treated  the  lodgers  in  the 
first  pair  back  with  persistent  indifference  and  even 
brutality,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Mason  was  a  young,  help- 


394  THE   HI8T0RV   <•!•    DAN  ID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

less  creature  approaching  every  day  nearer  to  a  con- 
finement she  regarded  with  terror,  and  that  a  little 
common  kindness  from  the  only  other  woman  in  the 
house  could  have  softened  her  lot  consideraljly.  But 
David's  books  were  stacked  about  in  awkward  and 
inconvenient  places  waiting  for  the  Masons'  departure, 
and  Louie  had  no  patience  with  them — with  the  wife 
at  any  rate.  It  once  or  twice  occurred  to  David  tliat 
if  the  husband,  a  good-looking  fellow  and  a  very  hard- 
worked  shopman,  had  had  inore  hours  at  home,  Louie 
would  have  tried  her  blandishments  upon  him. 

He  on  his  side  was  goaded  by  Louie's  behaviour  into 
an  unusual  complaisance  and  liberality  towards  his 
tenants.  Louie  once  contemptuously  told  him  he 
would  make  a  capital  'general  help.'  He  was  Mrs, 
Mason's  coal-carrier  and  errand-boy  already. 

In  the  same  way  Louie  beat  and  ill-treated  a  half- 
starved  collie — one  of  the  short-haired  black  sort  famil- 
iar to  the  shepherd  of  the  north,  and  to  David  himself 
in  his  farm  days — which  would  haunt  the  shop  and 
kitchen.  Whereupon  David  felt  all  his  heart  melt 
towards  the  squalid,  unhandsome  creature.  He  fed 
and  cherished  it;  it  slept  on  his  bed  by  night  and  fol- 
lowed him  by  day,  he  all  the  while  protecting  it  from 
Louie  with  a  strong  hand.  And  the  more  evil  was 
the  eye  she  cast  upon  the  dog,  who,  according  to  her, 
possessed  all  the  canine  vices,  the  more  David  loved 
it,  and  the  more  Tim  was  fattened  and  caressed. 

In  another  direction,  too,  the  same  antagonism 
appeared.  The  sister's  license  of  speech  and  behav- 
iour towards  the  men  who  became  her  acquaintances 
provoked  in  the  brother  what  often  seemed  to  Ancrum 
— who,  of  course,  remembered  Eeuben,  and  had  heard 
many  tales  of  old  James  Grieve,  tlie  lad's  grandfather 
— a  sort  of  Puritan  reaction,  the  reaction  of  his  race 
and  stock  against  'lewdness.'     Louie's  complete  inde- 


CIIAI" 


YOUTH  30r, 


])enclence,  however,  and  the  distance  she  preserved 
between  his  amusements  and  hers,  left  David  no  other 
weapon  than  sarcasm,  which  he  employed  freely.  His 
fine  sensitive  mouth  took  during  these  weeks  a  curve 
lialf  mocking,  half  bitter,  Avhich  changed  the  whole 
expression  of  the  face. 

He  saw,  indeed,  with  great  clearness  after  a  month 
or  so  tliat  Louie's  wildness  was  by  no  means  the  wild- 
ness  of  an  ignorant  innocent,  likely  to  slip  unawares 
into  perdition,  and  that,  while  she  had  a  passionate 
greed  for  amusement  and  pleasure,  and  a  blank  absence 
of  principle,  she  was  still  perfectly  alive  to  the  risks 
of  life,  and  meant  somehow  both  to  enjoy  herself  and 
to  steer  herself  through.  But  this  gradual  perception 
— that,  in  spite  of  her  mode  of  killing  spare  time,  she 
was  not  immediately  likely  to  take  any  fatal  false 
step,  as  he  had  imagined  in  his  first  dread — did  but 
increase  his  inward  repulsion. 

A  state  of  feeling  which  Avas  the  more  remarkable 
because  he  himself,  in  Anerum's  eyes,  was  at  the  mo- 
ment in  a  temper  of  moral  relaxation  and  bewilder- 
ment !  His  absorption  in  George  Sand,  and  through 
her  in  all  the  other  French  Romantics  whose  books  he 
could  either  find  for  himself  or  borrow  from  Barbier, 
was  carrying  a  ferment  of  passion  and  imagination 
through  all  his  blood.  Most  social  arrangements,  in- 
cluding marriage,  seemed  to  have  become  open  ques- 
tions to  him.  AVhy,  then,  this  tone  towards  Louie  and 
her  friends  ?  Was  it  that,  apart  from  the  influence  of 
heredity,  the  young  fellow's  moral  perception  at  this 
time  was  not  ethical  at  all,  but  aesthetic — a  matter  of 
taste,  of  the  presence  or  absence  of  certain  ideal  and 
poetic  elements  in  conduct  ? 

At  any  rate  his  friendship  for  old  Barbier  drew 
closer  and  closer,  and  Ancrum,  who  had  begun  to  feel 
a  lively  affection  for  him,  could  see  but  little  of  him. 


306  'I'lIK   IIISTOKV   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       hook  ii 

As  to  Barbier,  it  was  a  significant  chance  wliicli  had 
tlirowu  him  across  David's  path.  In  former  days  this 
lively  Frenchman  had  been  a  small  Paris  journalist, 
whom  the  coup  d'etat  had  struck  down  with  his  bet- 
ters, and  who  had  escaped  to  England  with  one  suit 
of  clothes  and  eight  francs  in  his  pocket.  He  re- 
minded himself  on  landing  of  a  cousin  of  his  mother's 
settled  as  a  clerk  in  JVIanchester,  found  his  way  north- 
Avards,  and  had  now,  for  some  seventeen  years,  been 
maintaining  himself  in  the  cotton  capital,  mainly  by 
teaching,  but  partly  by  a  num'oer  of  small  arts — orna- 
mental calligraphy,  wieuw-writing,  and  the  like — too 
odd  and  various  for  description.  He  was  a  fanatic,  a 
Red,  much  possessed  by  political  hatreds  which  gave 
savour  to  an  existence  otherwise  dull  and  peaceable 
enough.  Religious  beliefs  were  very  scarce  with  him, 
but  he  had  a  certain  literary  creed,  the  creed  of  1830, 
Avhen  he  had  been  a  scribbler  in  the  train  of  Victor 
Hugo,  which  he  did  his  best  to  put  into  David. 

He  was  a  formidable-looking  person,  six  feet  in 
height,  and  broad  in  proportion,  with  Ijushy  white 
eyebrows,  and  a  mouth  made  liideous  by  two  project- 
ing teeth.  In  speech  he  hated  England  and  all  her 
ways,  and  was  for  ever  yearning  towards  the  mis- 
guided and  yet  unequalled  country  which  had  cast 
him  out.  In  heart  he  was  perfectly  aware  that  Eng- 
land is  free  as  not  even  Republican  France  is  free ; 
and  he  was  also  sufficiently  alive  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  made  himself  a  very  tolerable  niche  in  Manches- 
ter, and  was  pleasantly  regarded  there — at  least,  in 
certain  circles — as  an  oracle  of  French  opinion,  a  com- 
modity which,  in  a  great  commercial  centre,  may  at 
any  time  have  a  casli  value.  He  could,  in  truth,  have 
long  ago  revisited  la  patrie  had  he  had  a  mind,  for 
governments  are  seldom  vindictive  in  the  case  of  peo- 
ple who  can  clearly  do  them  no  harm.    This,  however, 


CHAP.  X  YDrrir  .",07 

was  not  at  all  his  own  honest  view  of  the  matter.  In 
the  mirror  of  the  mind  he  saw  himself  perpetually 
draped  in  the  pathos  of  exile  and  the  dignity  of  per- 
secution, and  the  phrases  by  which  he  was  wont  to 
impress  this  inward  vision  on  the  brutal  English  sense 
liad  become,  in  the  course  of  years,  an  effective  and 
touching  habit  with  him. 

J)avid  had  been  Barbier's  pujiil  in  the  first  instance 
at  one  of  the  classes  of  the  Mechanics'  Institute. 
Never  in  IJarbier's  memory  had  any  Manchester  lad 
so  applied  himself  to  learn  French  before.  And  when 
the  boy's  knowledge  of  the  Encyclop.^edists  came  out, 
and  he  one  day  put  the  master  right  in  class  on  some 
points  connected  with  Diderot's  relations  to  Rousseau, 
the  ex-journalist  gaped  with  astonishment,  and  then 
went  home  and  read  up  his  facts,  half  enraged  and 
half  enraptured.  David's  zeal  piqued  him,  made  him 
a  better  Frenchman  and  a  better  teacher  than  he  had 
been  for  years.  He  was  a  vain  man,  and  David's  capac- 
ities put  him  on  his  mettle. 

Very  soon  he  and  the  lad  had  become  intimate.  He 
had  described  to  David  the  first  night  of  Hernani, 
when  he  had  been  one  of  the  long-haired  band  of 
rapins,  who  came  down  in  their  scores  to  the  Theatre 
Fran<jais  to  defend  their  chief,  Hugo,  against  the  hisses 
of  the  Philistine.  The  two  were  making  coffee  in 
Barbier's  attic,  at  the  top  of  a  side  street  off  the 
Oxford  Road,  when  these  memories  seized  upon  the 
old  Romantic.  He  took  up  the  empty  coffee-pot,  and 
brandished  it  from  side  to  side  as  though  it  had  been 
the  sword  of  Hernani ;  the  miserable  Academy  hug- 
ging its  ]\roliere  and  Racine  fled  before  him  ;  the  world 
was  once  more  regenerate,  and  Hugo  its  high  priest. 
Passages  from  the  different  parts  welled  to  his  old 
lips ;  he  gave  the  play  over  again — the  scene  between 
tlie  lover  and  the   husband,  where  the  husband  lays 


398  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

down  the  strange  and  sinister  penalty  to  wiiich  tlie 
lover  submits — the  exquisite  love-scene  in  the  fifth 
act — and  the  cry  of  agonised  passion  with  which  Dona 
Sol  defends  her  love  against  his  executioner.  All 
these  things  he  declaimed,  stumping  up  and  down,  till 
the  terrified  landlady  rose  out  of  her  bed  to  remon- 
strate, and  got  the  door  locked  in  her  face  for  her 
pains,  and  till  the  bourgeois  baby  in  the  next  room 
woke  up  and  roared,  and  so  put  au  abrupt  end  to  the 
performance.  Old  Barbier  sat  down  swearing,  poked 
the  fire  furiously,  and  then,  taking  out  a  huge  red 
handkerchief,  wiped  his  brow  with  a  trembling  hand. 
His  stiff  white  hair,  parted  on  either  temple,  bristled 
like  a  high  toupie  over  his  round,  black  eyes,  which 
glowed  behind  his  spectacles.  And  meanwhile  the 
handsome  boy  sat  opposite,  glad  to  laugh  by  way  of 
reaction,  but  at  bottom  stirred  by  the  same  emotion, 
and  ready  to  share  in  the  same  adorations. 

Gradually  David  learnt  his  way  about  this  bygone 
world  of  Barbier's  recollection.  A  vivid  picture  sprang 
up  in  him  of  these  strange  leaders  of  a  strange  band, 
these  cadaverous  poets  and  artists  of  Louis  Philippe's 
early  days, — beings  in  love  with  Lord  Byron  and 
suicide,  having  Art  for  God,  and  Hugo  for  prophet, 
talking  of  were-wolves,  vampires,  cathedrals,  sunrises, 
forests,  passion  and  despair,  hatted  like  brigands, 
cloaked  after  Vandyke,  curled  like  Absalom,  making 
new  laws  unto  themselves  in  verse  as  in  morals,  and 
leaving  all  petty  talk  of  duty  or  common  sense  to  the 
Academy  and  the  nursery. 

George  Sand  walking  the  Paris  quays  in  male  dress 
— George  Sand  at  Fontainebleau  roaming  the  midnight 
forest  with  Alfred  de  Musset  or  wintering  with  her 
dying  musician  among  the  mountains  of  Palma; 
Gerard  de  Nerval,  wanderer,  poet,  and  suicide  ;  Alfred 
de  Musset  flaming  into  verse  at  dead  of  night  amid  an 


en  A  I'.  X 


YolTH  300 


answeriii<,'  and  spendthrift  blaze  of  wax  candles ; 
Baudelaire's  blasphemies  and  eccentricities — these 
characters  and  incidents  Barbier  wove  into  endless 
highly  colonred  tales,  to  which  David  listened  with 
perpetual  n-lish. 

'  Man  Dien  .'  Mon  Dieu  !  What  times  !  What 
memories ! '  the  old  Frenchman  would  cry  at  last, 
fairly  re-transported  to  the  word  of  his  youth,  and, 
springing  ui),  he  would  run  to  the  little  cupboard  by 
his  bed  head,  where  he  kept  a  score  or  so  of  little 
paper  volumes — volumes  which  the  tradesman  David 
soon  discovered,  from  a  curious  study  of  French  cata- 
logues, to  have  a  fast-rising  money  value — and  out 
would  come  Alfred  de  ]\Iusset's  '  Nuit  de  j\[ai,'  or  an 
outrageous  verse  from  Baudelaire,  or  an  harmonious 
nothing  from  Gautier.  David  gradually  learnt  to  fol- 
low, to  understand,  to  range  all  that  he  heard  in  a 
mental  setting  of  his  own.  The  France  of  his  imagi- 
nation indeed  was  a  strange  land  !  Everybody  in  it 
was  either  girding  at  priests  like  Voltaire,  or  dying 
for  love  like  George  Sand's  Stenio. 

But  whether  the  picture  was  true  to  life  or  no,  it 
had  a  very  strongly  marked  effect  on  the  person  con- 
ceiving it.  Just  as  the  speculative  complexion  of 
his  first  youth  had  been  decided  by  the  chance  which 
brought  him  into  daily  contact  with  the  French 
eighteenth  century — for  no  self-taught  solitar}^  boy  of 
quick  and  covetous  mind  can  read  Voltaire  continuously 
without  bearing  the  marks  of  him  henceforward — so 
in  the  same  way,  when  he  passed,  as  France  had  done 
before  him,  from  the  philosophers  to  the  Romantics, 
this  constant  preoccupation  with  the  French  literature 
of  passion  in  its  romantic  and  idealist  period  left  deep 
and  lasting  results. 

The  strongest  of  these  results  lay  in  the  realm  of 
moral  and  social  sense.     What  struck  the  lad's  raw 


400  THE   inSTOP^Y  OF  BAVTD   GRIEVE       p.ook  ii 

mind  witli  more  and  more  force  as  lie  gathered  his 
Frencli  books  about  him  was  the  profound  gulf  which 
seemed  to  divide  the  average  French  conception  of  the 
relation  between  the  sexes  from  the  average  English 
one.  In  the  French  novels  he  read  every  young  man 
liad  his  mistress ;  every  married  woman  her  lover. 
Tragedy  frequently  arose  out  of  these  relations,  but 
that  the  relations  must  and  did  obtain,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  was  assumed.  For  the  delightful  heroes  and" 
heroines  of  a  whole  range  of  fiction,  from  'Manon 
Lescaut '  down  to  Murger's  '  Vie  de  Boheme,'  marriage 
did  not  apparently  exist,  even  as  a  matter  of  argument. 
And  as  to  the  duties  of  the  married  woman,  when  she 
passed  on  to  the  canvas,  the  code  was  equally  simple. 
The  husband  might  kill  his  wife's  lover — that  was  in 
the  game  ;  but  the  young  man's  right  to  be  was  as 
good  as  his  own.  'No  linman  being  can  control  love, 
and  no  one  is  to  blame  either  for  feeling  it  or  for  losing 
it.  }VJiat  alone  degrades  a  woman  is  falsehood.'  So 
says  the  husband  in  George  Sand's  '  Jacques  '  when  he 
is  just  about  to  fling  himself  down  an  Alpine  precipice 
that  his  wife  and  Octave  may  have  their  way  undis- 
turbed. And  all  the  time,  what  poetry  and  passion  in 
the  presentation  of  these  things !  Beside  them  the 
mere  remembrance  of  English  ignorance,  prudish ness, 
and  conventionality  Avould  set  the  lad  swelling,  as  he 
I'ead,  with  a  sense  of  superior  scorn,  and  of  wild 
sympathy  for  a  world  in  which  love  and  not  law, 
truth  and  not  legal  fiction,  were  masters  of  human 
relations. 

Some  little  time  after  Reuben's  visit  to  him  he  one 
day  told  Barbier  the  fact  of  his  French  descent.  Bar- 
bier  declared  that  he  had  always  known  it,  had  always 
realised  something  in  David  distinct  from  the  sluggish 
huckstering  English  temper.  Why,  David's  mother 
was  from  the  south  of  France ;  his  own  family  came 


CHAP.    X 


YOUTH  401 


from  Carcassonne.     No  doubt  the  rich  Gascon  blood 
ran  in  both  their  veins.     SaliU  an  compatriote '. 

Thenceforward  tliere  was  a  ^veater  solidarity  between 
the  two  than  ever.  Jiarbier  fell  into  an  incessant  gos- 
sip of  Paris — the  Paris  of  Louis  Philippe — reviving 
memories  and  ways  of  speech  w^hich  had  been  long 
dead  in  liim,  and  leaving  on  David's  mind  the  impres- 
sion of  a  place  wliere  life  was  from  morning  till  night ' 
amusement,  exliilaration,  and  seduction  ;  where,  under 
the  bright  smokeless  sky,  and  amid  the  stateliest 
streets  and  public  buildings  in  Europe,  men  were 
idways  witty  and  women  always  attractive. 

Meanwhile  the  course  of  business  during  the  spring 
months  and  the  rise  of  his  trade  in  foreign  books 
rapidly  brought  the  scheme  of  a  visit  to  France,  which 
had  been  at  first  a  mere  dream  and  fancy,  within  the 
region  of  practical  possibility,  and  even  advantage,  for 
the  young  bookseller.  Two  things  he  was  set  on.  If 
he  went  he  was  determined  to  go  under  such  conditions 
as  would  enable  him  to  see  French  life — especially 
French  artistic  and  student  life — from  the  inside. 
And  he  saw  with  some  clearness  that  he  would  have 
to  take  his  sister  with  him. 

Against  the  latter  notion  Barbier  protested  vehe- 
mently. 

'  What  do  you  want  to  tie  yourself  to  a  petticoat 
for  ?  If  you  take  the  girl  you  will  have  to  look  after 
her.  Paris,  my  boy,  let  me  inform  you,  is  not  the  best 
place  in  the  world  for  la  jeune  jjersonne ;  and  the  Paris 
rapin  may  be  an  amusing  scoundrel,  but  don't  trust 
him  with  young  women  if  you  can  help  it.  Leave 
Mademoiselle  Louie  at  home,  and  let  her  mind  the 
shop.  Get  Mademoiselle  Dora  or  some  one  to  stay 
with  her,  or  send  her  to  Mademoiselle  Dora.' 

So  said  the  Frenchman  with  sharp  dictatorial  em- 
phasis.    What  a  preposterous  suggestion  I 

VOL.  I  2  u 


402  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

'  I  can't  stop  her  coming,'  said  David,  quietly — '  if 
she  wants  to  come — and  she'll  be  sure  to  want.  Be- 
sides, I'll  not  leave  her  alone  at  home,  and  she'll  not 
let  me  send  her  anywhere — you  may  be  sure  of  that.' 

The  Frenchman  stared  and  stormed.  David  fell 
silent.  Loiue  was  what  she  was,  and  it  was  no 
use  discussing  her.  At  last  Barbier,  being  after  all 
•  tolerably  well  acquainted  with  the  lad's  relations  to 
his  sister,  came  to  a  sudden  end  of  his  rhetoric,  and  be- 
gan to  think  out  something  practicable. 

That  evening  he  wrote  to  a  nephew  of  his  living  as 
an  artist  in  the  Quartier  Montmartre,  Some  months 
before  Barbier's  vanity  had  been  flattered  by  an  adroit 
letter  from  this  young  gentleman,  written,  if  the  truth 
were  known.,  at  a  moment  when  a  pecuniary  situation, 
pinched  almost  beyond  endurance,  had  made  it  seem 
worth  while  to  get  his  uncle's  address  out  of  his 
widowed  mother.  Barbier,  a  bachelor,  and  a  man  of 
some  small  savings,  perfectly  understood  why  he  had 
been  approached,  and  had  been  none  the  less  extraor- 
dinarily glad  to  hear  froni  the  youth.  He  was  a 
rapin?  well  and  good;  all  the  great  men  had  been 
rcqn'ns  before  him.  Very  likely  he  had  the  rapines 
characteristic  vices  and  distractions.  All  the  world 
knew  what  the  life  meant  for  nine  men  out  of  ten. 
What  was  the  use  of  preaching  ?  Youth  was  youth. 
Clearly  the  old  man — himself  irreproachable — would 
have  been  disappointed  not  to  find  his  nephew  a  sad 
dog  on  personal  acquaintance. 

'Tell  me,  Xavier,'  his  letter  ran,  'how  to  put  a 
young  friend  of  mine  in  the  way  of  seeing  something 
of  Paris  and  Paris  life,  more  than  your  fool  of  a  tour- 
ist generally  sees.  He  is  a  bookseller,  and  will,  of 
course,  mind  his  trade  ;  but  he  is  a  young  man  of  taste 
and  intelligence  besides,  and  moreover  half  French. 
It  would  be  a  pity  that  he  should  visit  Paris  as  any 


fiiAr.  X  VorTTI        •  m^ 

sacre  Britisli  Philistine  does.  Advise  me  where  to 
])lace  him.  He  woiihl  like  to  see  something  of  your 
artist's  life.  ]h\t  mind  this,  young  man,  he  brings  a 
sister  with  liim  as  handsome  as  the  devil,  and  not 
much  easier  to  manage  :  so  if  you  do  advise — no  tricks 
— tell  me  of  something  convenable.' 

A  few  days  later  lUirbier  appeared  in  Potter  Street 
just  after  David  had  put  up  the  shutters,  announcing 
that  he  had  a  proposal  to  make. 

David  unlocked  the  shop-door  and  let  him  in. 
Rarbier  looked  round  with  some  amazement  on  the 
small  stuffy  place,  piled  to  bursting  by  now  with  books 
of  every  kind,  which  only  John's  herculean  efforts  could 
keep  in  passable  order. 

'Why  don't  you  house  yourself  better — hein?'  said 
the  Frenchman.  'A  business  growing  like  this,  and 
nothing  but  a  den  to  handle  it  in  ! ' 

'  I  shall  be  all  right  when  I  get  my  other  room,'  said 
David  composedly.  '  Couldn't  turn  out  the  lodger  before. 
The  woman  was  only  confined  last  week.' 

And  as  he  spoke  the  wailing  of  an  infant  and  a 
skurrying  of  feet  were  heard  upstairs. 

*  So  it  seems,'  said  Barbier,  adjusting  his  spectacles 
in  bewilderment.  J^sus !  What  an  affair !  What 
did  you  permit  it  for?  Why  didn't  you  turn  her  out 
in  time  ? ' 

'I  would  have  turned  myself  out  first,'  said  David. 
He  was  lounging,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  against 
the  books  ;  but  though  his  attitude  was  nonchalant,  his 
tone  had  a  vibrating  energy. 

'  Barbier ! ' 

'Yes.' 

'  What  do  women  suffer  for  like  that  ? ' 

The  young  man's  ej^es  glowed,  and  his  lips  twitched 
a  little,  as  though  some  poignant  remembrance  were  at 
his  heart. 


404  THE   HISTOKY  OF  DAVTD   ORTEVE       book  ii 

Barbiei-  looked  at  liim  with  some  curiosity. 
'Ask  le  hon  Dieu  and  Mother  E\-e,  my  friend.     It 
lies  between  them,'  said  the  old  scoffer,  with  a  shrug. 

David  looked  away  in  silence.  On  his  quick  mind, 
greedy  of  all  human  experience,  the  night  of  Mrs. 
Mason's  confinement,  with  its  sounds  of  anguish  pene- 
trating through  all  the  upper  rooms  of  the  thin,  ill- 
Imilt  house,  had  left  an  ineffaceable  impression  of  awe 
and  terror.  In  the  morning,  when  all  was  safely  over, 
he  came  down  to  the  kitchen  to  find  the  husband — a 
man  some  two  or  three  years  older  than  himself,  and 
the  smart  foreman  of  an  ironmongery  shop  in  Deans- 
gate — crouching  over  a  bit  of  fire.  The  man  was  too 
much  excited  to  apologise  for  his  presence  in  the 
Grieves'  room.  David  shyly  asked  him  a  question 
about  his  wife. 

'  Oh,  it  's  all  right,  the  doctor  says.  There  's  the 
nurse  with  her,  and  your  sister  's  got  the  baby.  She  '11 
do;  but,  oh,  my  God!  it  's  awful — it  '.s-  awful!  My 
poor  Liz  !  Give  me  a  corner  here,  will  you  !  I'm  all 
upset  like.' 

David  had  got  some  food  out  of  the  cupboard,  made 
him  eat  it,  and  chatted  to  him  till  the  man  was  more 
himself  again.  But  the  crying  of  the  new-born  child 
overhead,  together  with  the  shaken  condition  of  this 
clever,  self-reliant  young  fellow,  so  near  his  own  age, 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  introduce  the  lad  to  new 
and  unknown  regions  of  human  feeling. 

While  these  images  were  pursuing  each  other  through 
David's  mind,  Barbier  was  poking  among  his  foreign 
books,  which  lay,  backs  upwards,  on  the  floor  to  one 
side  of  the  counter. 

'Do  you  sell  thein — hein?'  he  said,  looking  up  and 
pointing  to  thon  with  his  stick. 

'Yes.  Especially  the  scientific  books.  These  are 
an  order.     So  is  that  batch.     Napoleon  III.'s  "  C^sar," 


I  IIAP.    X 


YOUTH  •  405 


itsu't  it  ?  Ami  those  over  there  are  "on  spec."  Oh,  I 
could  do  something  if  I  knew  more  !  There's  a  man 
over  at  Oklhain.  One  ol'  the  biggest  weaving-sheds — 
cotton  velvets— that  kind  of  thing.  He's  awfully  rich, 
and  he's  got  a  French  library  ;  a  big  one,  I  believe. 
He  came  in  here  yesterday.  I  think  I  could  make 
something  out  of  him ;  but  he  wants  all  sorts  of  rum 
things — last-century  memoirs,  out-of-the-wuy  ones — 
everything  about  Montaigne — first  editions — Lord 
knows  what !  I  say,  Barbier,  I  dare  say  he'd  buy 
your  books.     What'll  you  let  me  have  them  for?  ' 

•  Diantre !  Not  for  your  heart's  blood,  my  young 
man.  It's  like  your  impudence  to  ask.  You  could 
sell  more  if  you  knew  more,  you  think  '.'  Well  now 
listen  to  me.' 

The  Frenchman  sat  down,  adjusted  his  spectacles, 
and,  taking  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  read  it  with 
deliberation. 

It  was  from  the  nephew,  Xavier  Dubois,  in  answer 
to  his  uncle's  inquiries.  Nothing,  the  writer  declared, 
could  have  been  more  opportune.  He  himself  was 
just  off  to  Belgium,  where  a  friend  had  procured  him 
a  piece  of  work  on  a  new  Government  building.  Why 
should  not  his  uncle's  friends  inhabit  his  rooms  dur- 
ing his  absence  ?  He  must  keep  them  on,  and  would 
find  it  very  convenient,  that  being  so,  that  some  one 
should  pay  the  rent.  There  was  his  studio,  which 
was  bare,  no  doubt,  but  quite  habitable,  and  a  little 
cabinet  de  toilette  adjoining,  and  shut  off,  containing  a 
bed  and  all  necessaries.  Why  should  not  the  sister 
take  the  bedroom,  and  let  the  brother  camp  somehow 
in  the  studio  ?  He  could  no  doubt  borrow  a  bed  from 
some  friend  before  they  came,  and  with  a  large  screen, 
which  was  one  of  the  '  studio  properties,'  a  very  toler- 
able sleeping  room  could  be  improvised,  and  still  leave 
a  good  deal  of  the  studio  free.     He  understood  that 


406  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

his  uncle's  friends  were  not  looking  for  luxury.     But 
le  stride  necessaire  he  could  provide. 

Meanwhile  the  Englishman  and  his  sister  Avould 
find  themselves  at  once  in  the  artists'  circle,  and 
might  see  as  much  or  as  little  as  they  liked  of  artistic 
life.  He  (Dubois)  could  of  course  give  them  intro- 
ductions. There  was  a  sculptor,  for  instance,  on  the 
ground  floor,  a  man  of  phenomenal  genius,  joU  garcon 
besides,  who  would  certainly  show  himself  amiable  for 
anybody  introduced  by  Dubois  ;  and  on  the  floor  above 
there  was  a  landscape  painter,  ancien  prix  de  Home, 
and  his  wife,  who  would  also,  no  doubt,  make  them- 
selves agreeable,  and  to  whom  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter might  go  for  all  necessary  information— Dubois 
would  see  to  that.  Sixty  francs  a  month  paid  the 
appartement;  a  trifle  for  service  if  you  desired  it — 
there  was,  however,  no  compulsion — to  the  concierge 
would  make  you  comfortable ;  and  as  for  your  food, 
the  Quartier  Montmartre  abounded  in  cheap  restau- 
rants, and  you  might  live  as  you  pleased  for  one  franc 
a  day  or  twenty.  He  suggested  that  on  the  whole  no 
better  opening  was  likely  to  be  found  by  two  young 
persons  of  spirit,  anxious  to  see  Paris  from  the  inside. 

'  Now  then,'  said  Barbier,  taking  off  his  spectacles 
with  an  authoritative  click,  as  he  shut  up  the  letter, 
' clecide-toi.  Go  ! — and  look  about  you  for  a  fortnight. 
Improve  your  French  ;  get  to  know  some  of  the  Paris 
bookmen;  take  some  commissions  out  with  you — buy 
there  to  the  best  advantage,  and  come  back  twenty 
per  cent,  better  informed  than  when  you  set  out.' 

He  smote  his  hands  upon  his  knees  with  energy. 
He  had  a  love  of  management  and  contrivance ;  and 
the  payment  of  Eugene's  rent  for  him  during  his 
absence  weighed  with  his  frugal  mind. 

David  stood  twisting  his  mouth  in  silence  a  moment, 
his  head  thrown  back  against  the  books. 


cirvr.  X  YOUTH  107 

'  Well,  I  don't  see  why  not,'  he  said  at  last,  his  eyes 
sparklinfij. 

'And  take  notice,  my  friend,'  said  Barbier,  tap[)ing 
the  open  letter,  'the  ancien  prix  de  Rome  has  a  wife. 
Where  wives  are  young  women  can  go.  Xavier  can 
l)repare  the  way,  and,  if  you  play  your  cards  well,  you 
can  get  Mademoiselle  Louie  taken  off  your  hands  while 
you  go  about.' 

David  nodded.  lie  was  sitting  astride  on  the 
counter,  his  face  shining  with  the  excitement  he  was 
now  too  uiuch  of  a  man  to  show  with  the  old  freedom. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of  wild  voices  from 
the  inside  room. 

'  Miss  Grieve  !  Miss  Grieve  !  don't  j^ou  take  that 
child  away.  Bring  it  back,  I  say  ;  I'll  go  to  your 
brother,  I  will ! ' 

'  That's  Mrs.  Mason's  nurse,'  said  David,  springing 
off  the  counter.     '  What's  up  now  ?  ' 

He  threw  open  the  door  into  the  kitchen,  just  as 
Louie  swept  into  the  room  from  the  other  side.  She 
had  a  white  bundle  in  her  arms,  and  her  face  was 
flushed  with  a  sly  triumph.  After  her  ran  the  stout 
woman  who  was  looking  after  ^Vlrs.  Mason,  purple  with 
indignation. 

'  Isow  look  yo  here,  Mr.  Grieve,'  she  cried  at  sight  of 
David,  '  I  can't  stand  it,  and  I  won't.  Am  I  in  charge 
of  Mrs.  Mason  or  am  I  not  ?  Here's  Miss  Grieve,  as 
soon  as  my  back  's  turned,  as  soon  as  I've  laid  that 
blessed  baby  in  its  cot  as  quiet  as  a  lamb — and  it  's 
been  howling  since  three  o'clock  this  morning,  as  yo 
know — in  she  whips,  claws  it  out  of  its  cradle,  and  is 
off  wi'  it,  Lord  knows  where.  Thank  the  Lord,  ]\Irs. 
.Mason's  asleep !  If  she  weren't,  she'd  have  a  fit.  She's 
feart  to  death  o'  ]\Iiss  Grieve.  We  noather  on  us  know 
what  to  make  on  her.  She's  like  a  wild  thing  soom- 
timos — not  a  human  creetur  at  aw — Gie  me  that  chilt, 
I  tell  tha ! ' 


408  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVK       i;,,.,k  n 

Louie  vouchsafed  no  answer.  She  sat  down  com- 
posedly before  the  fire,  and,  cradling  the  still  sleeping 
child  on  her  knee,  she  bent  over  it  examining  its 
waxen  hands  and  tiny  feet  with  an  eager  curiosity. 
The  nurse,  who  stood  over  her  trembling  with  anger, 
and  only  deterred  from  snatching  the  child  away  by 
the  fear  of  wakening  it,  might  have  been  talking  to 
the  wall. 

'  Xow,  look  here,  Louie,  what  d'  you  do  that  for  ? ' 
said  David,  remonstrating ;  '  why  can't  you  leave  the 
child  alone  ?  You'll  be  putting  jNfrs.  Mason  in  a  tak- 
ing, and  that  '11  do  her  harm.' 

'Xowt  o'  t'  sort,'  said  Louie  composedly,  'it  's  that 
woman  there  '11  wake  her  with  her  screeching.  She's 
asleep,  and  the  baby's  asleep,  and  I'm  taking  care  of 
it.  Why  can't  Mrs.  Bury  go  and  look  after  Mrs. 
Mason  ?  She  hasn't  swept  her  room  this  two  days, 
and  it  's  a  sight  to  see.' 

Pricked  in  a  tender  point,  :\rrs.  Bury  broke  out 
again  into  a  stream  of  protest  and  invective,  only 
modified  by  her  fear  of  waking  her  patient  upstairs, 
and  interrupted  by  appeals  to  David.  But  whenever 
she  came  near  to  take  the  baby  Louie  put  her  hands 
over  it,  and  her  wide  black  eyes  shot  out  intimidating 
flames  before  which  the  aggressor  invariably  fell  back. 

Attracted  by  the  fight,  Barbier  had  come  up  to  look, 
and  now  stood  by  the  shop-door,  riveted  by  Louie's 
strange  beauty.  She  wore  the  same  black  and  scar- 
let dress  in  which  she  had  made  her  first  aj^pearance 
in  Manchester.  She  now  never  wore  it  out  of  doors, 
her  quick  eye  having  at  once  convinced  her  that  it  was 
not  in  the  fashion.  But  the  instinct  which  had  origi- 
nally led  her  to  contrive  it  was  abundantly  justified 
Avhenever  she  still  condescended  to  put  it  on,  so  start- 
ling a  relief  it  lent  to  the  curves  of  her  slim  figure,  de- 
veloped during  the  last  two  years  of  growth  to   all 


CHAP.    X 


YOUTH  400 


womanly  roundness  and  softness,  and  to  the  dazzling 
colour  of  her  dark  head  and  thin  face.  As  she  sat 
by  the  fire,  the  white  bundle  on  her  knee,  one  pointed 
foot  swinging  in  front  of  her,  now  hanging  over  the 
baby,  and  now  turning  her  bright  dangerous  look  and 
compressed  lips  on  Mrs.  Bury,  she  made  a  peculiar 
witch-like  impression  on  Barbier  which  thrilled  his 
old  nerv^es  agreeably.  It  was  clear,  he  thought,  that 
the  girl  wanted  a  husband  and  a  family  of  her  own. 
Otherwise  why  should  she  run  off  with  other  people's 
children  ?  But  he  would  be  a  bold  man  who  ventured 
on  her ! 

David,  at  last  seeing  that  Louie  was  in  the  mood 
to  tear  the  babe  asunder  rather  than  give  it  up,  with 
difficulty  induced  Mrs.  Bury  to  leave  her  in  possession 
for  half  an  hour,  promising  that,  as  soon  as  the 
mother  woke,  the  child  should  be  given  back. 

'If  I've  had  enough  of  it,'  Louie  put  in,  as  a  saving 
clause,  luckily  just  too  late  to  be  heard  by  the  nurse, 
who  had  sulkily  closed  the  door  behind  her,  declaring 
that  'sich  an  owdacious  chit  she  never  saw  in  her 
born  days,  and  niver  heerd  on  one  oather.' 

David  and  Barbier  went  back  into  the  shop  to  talk, 
leaving  Louie  to  her  nursing.  As  soon  as  she  was 
alone  she  laid  back  the  flannel  which  lay  round  the 
child's  head,  and  examined  every  inch  of  its  downy 
poll  and  puckered  face,  her  warm  breath  making  the 
tiny  lips  twitch  in  sleep  as  it  travelled  across  them. 
Then  she  lifted  the  little  nightgown  and  looked  at  the 
pink  feet  nestling  in  their  flannel  wrapping.  A  glow 
sprang  into  her  cheek ;  her  great  eyes  devoured  the 
sleeping  creature.  Its  weakness  and  helplessness,  its 
plasticity  to  anything  she  might  choose  to  do  with  it, 
seemed  to  intoxicate  her.  She  looked  round  her 
furtively,  then  bent  and  laid  a  hot  covetous  kiss  on  the 
small  clenched  hand.     The  child  moved:  had  it  been 


410  THE   IIISTOKY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE      book  ii 

a  little  older  it  would  have  wakened ;  but  Louie,  has- 
tily covering  it  up,  began  to  rock  it  and  sing  to  it. 

The  door  into  the  sliop  was  ajar.  As  David  and 
I'.arbier  Avere  hanging  together  over  a  map  of  Paris 
which  David  had  hunted  out  of  his  stores,  Barbier 
suddenly  threw  u[)  his  head  with  a  queer  look. 
'What's  that  she's  singing?'  he  said  quickly. 
He  got  up  hastily,  overturning  his  stool  as  he  did 
so,  and  went  to  the  door  to  listen. 

*  I  haven't  heard  that,'  he  said,  with  some  agitation, 
'  since  my  father's  sister  used  to  sing  it  me  when  I 
was  a  small  lad,  up  at  Augoumat  in  the  mountains 
near  Puy  ! ' 

Sur  le  pout  d' Avignon 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse  en  rond ; 
Les  beaux  messieurs  font  comme  §a, 
Les  beaux  messieurs  font  comme  9a. 

The  words  were  but  just  distinguishable  as  Louie 
sang.  They  were  clipped  and  mutilated  as  by  one 
who  no  longer  understood  what  they  meant.  But  the 
intonation  was  extraordinarily  French,  French  of  the 
South,  and  Barbier  could  hardly  stand  still  under  it. 

'  Where  did  you  learn  that  ? '  he  called  to  her  from 
the  door. 

The  girl  stopped  and  looked  at  him  with  her  bright, 
bird-like  glance.     But  she  made  no  reply. 

'  Did  your  mother  teach  it  you  ? '  he  asked,  coming 
in. 

'  I  suppose  so,'  she  said  indifferently. 

'  Can  you  talk  any  French — do  you  remember  it  ? ' 

'No.' 

'  But  you'd  soon  learn.  You  haven't  got  the  Eng- 
lish mouth,  that's  plain.  Do  you  know  your  brother 
thinks  of  taking  you  to  Paris  ?  ' 

She  started. 

'  He  don't,'  she  said  laconically. 


ciiAr 


YOUTH  411 


*  Oh,  don't  he.     Just  ask  him  then  ?  ' 

Ten  minutes  later  Louie  had  been  put  in  possession 
of  the  situation.  As  David  had  fully  expected,  she 
took  no  notice  whatever  of  his  suggestion  that  after 
all  she  might  not  care  to  come.  They  might  be  rough 
quarters,  he  said,  and  queer  people  about;  and  it 
would  cost  a  terrible  deal  more  for  two  than  one. 
Sliould  he  not  ask  Dora  Lomax  to  take  her  in  for  a 
fortnight  ?  John,  of  course,  would  look  after  the  shoj). 
He  spoke  under  the  pressure  of  a  sudden  qualm,  know- 
ing it  would  be  no  use ;  but  his  voice  had  almost  a 
note  of  entreaty  in  it. 

'  When  do  you  want  to  be  starting  ?  '  she  asked 
him  sharply.  '  I'll  not  go  to  Dora's — so  you  needn't 
talk  o'  that.  You  can  take  the  money  out  of  what 
you'll  be  owing  me  next  month.' 

Her  nostrils  dilated  as  the  quick  breath  passed 
through  them.  Barbier  was  fascinated  by  the  extraor- 
dinary animation  of  the  face,  and  could  not  take  his 
eyes  off  her. 

'Not  for  a  fortnight,'  said  David  reluctantly,  an- 
swering her  question.  '  Barbier's  letter  says  about 
the  tenth  of  May.  There's  two  country  sales  I  must 
go  to,  and  some  other  things  to  settle.' 

She  nodded. 

'  Well,  then,  I  can  get  some  things  ready,'  she  said 
half  to  herself,  staring  across  the  baby  into  the  fire. 

When  David  and  Barbier  were  gone  together  '  up 
street,'  still  talking  over  their  plans,  Louie  leapt  to 
her  feet  and  laid  the  baby  down — carelessly,  as  though 
she  no  longer  cared  anything  at  all  about  it — in  the 
old-fashioned  armchair  wherein  David  spent  so  many 
midnight  vigils.  Then  locking  her  hands  behind  her, 
she  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow  room  with  the 
springing  gait,  the  impetuous  feverish  grace,  of  some 
prisoned  animal.     Paris  I     Her  education  was  small. 


412  THE   HISTOKY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

and  her  ignorance  enormous.  But  iu  the  columns  of 
a  'lady's  paper'  she  had  often  bought  from  the  station 
bookstall  at  Clough  End  she  had  devoured  nothing 
more  eagerly  than  the  Paris  letter,  with  its  luscious 
descriptions  of  'Paris  fashions,'  Avhereby  even  Lan- 
cashire women,  even  Clough  End  mill-hands  in  their 
Sunday  best,  were  darkly  governed  from  afar.  All 
sorts  of  bygone  dreams  recurred  to  her — rich  and 
subtle  combinations  of  silks,  satins,  laces,  furs,  imag- 
inary glories  clothing  an  imaginary  Louie  Grieve. 
The  remembrance  of  them  filled  her  with  a  greed 
j)ast  description,  and  she  forthwith  conceived  Paris 
as  a  place  all  shops,  each  of  them  superior  to  the  best 
in  St.  Ann's  Square — where  one  might  gloat  before 
the  windows  all  day. 

She  made  a  spring  to  the  door,  and  ran  upstairs  to 
her  own  room.  There  she  began  to  pull  out  her 
dresses  and  scatter  them  about  the  floor,  looking  at 
them  with  a  critical  discontented  eye. 

Time  passed.  She  was  standing  absorbed  before  an 
old  gown,  planning  out  its  renovation,  when  a  howl 
arose  from  downstairs.  She  fled  like  a  roe  deer,  and 
pounced  upon  the  baby  just  in  time  to  checkmate  Mrs. 
Bury,  Avho  was  at  her  heels. 

Quite  regardless  of  the  nurse's  exasperation  with 
her,  first  for  leaving  the  child  alone,  half  uncovered, 
in  a  chilly  room,  and  noAV  for  again  withholding  it, 
Louie  put  the  little  creature  against  her  neck,  rocking 
and  crooning  to  it.  The  sudden  warm  contact  stilled 
the  baby ;  it  rubbed  its  head  into  the  soft  hollow  thus 
presented  to  it,  and  its  hungry  lips  sought  eagerly  for 
their  natural  food.  The  touch  of  them  sent  a  deli- 
cious thrill  through  Louie  ;  she  turned  her  head  round 
and  kissed  the  tiny,  helpless  cheek  with  a  curious 
violence  ;  then,  tired  of  Mrs.  Bury,  and  anxious  to  get 
back  to  her  plans,  she  almost  threw  the  child  to  her. 


CHAP.    X 


YOUTH  413 


'There — take   it!     I'll  soon  get   it   again   when    1 
want  to.' 

And  slie  was  as  good  as  her  word.  The  period  of 
convalescence  was  to  poor  Mrs.  ]\rason — a  sickly, 
plaintive  creature  at  the  best  of  times — one  long 
struggle  and  misery,  Louie  represented  to  her  a  sort 
of  bird  of  prey,  who  was  for  ever  descending  on  her 
child  and  carrying  it  off  to  unknown  lairs.  For  neither 
mother  nor  nurse  had  Louie  the  smallest  consideration ; 
she  despised  and  tyrannised  over  them  both.  But  her 
hungry  fondness  for  the  baby  grew  with  gratification, 
and  there  was  no  mastering  her  in  the  matter.  Warm 
weather  came,  and  when  she  reached  home  after  her 
work,  she  managed  by  one  ruse  or  another  to  get  hold 
of  the  child,  and  on  one  occasion  she  disappeared  with 
it  into  the  street  for  hours.  David  was  amazed  by 
the  whim,  but  neither  he  nor  anyone  else  could  control 
it.  At  last,  ^Irs.  ]\Lason  was  more  or  less  hysterical 
all  day  long,  and  hardly  sane  when  Louie  was  within 
reach.  As  for  the  husband,  who  managed  to  be  more 
at  home  during  the  days  of  his  wife's  weakness  than 
he  had  yet  been  since  David's  tenancy  began,  he  com- 
plained to  David  and  spoke  his  mind  to  Louie  once  or 
twice,  and  then,  suddenly,  he  ceased  to  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  his  wife's  wails.  With  preternatural  quickness 
the  wife  guessed  the  reason.  A  fresh  terror  seized 
her — terror  of  the  girl's  hateful  beauty.  She  dragged 
herself  from  her  bed,  found  a  room,  while  Louie  was 
at  her  work,  and  carried  off  baby  and  husband,  leaving 
no  address.  Luckily  for  her,  the  impression  of  Louie's 
black  eyes  proved  to  have  been  a  passing  intoxication, 
and  the  poor  mother  breathed  and  lived  again. 

Meanwhile  Louie's  excitement  and  restlessness  over 
the  Paris  i)lan  made  her  more  than  usually  trying  to 
Dora.  During  this  fortnight  she  could  never  be  counted 
on  for  work,  not  even  when  it  was  a  question  of  finish- 


414  THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

ing  an  important  commission.  She  was  too  full  of  her 
various  preparations.  Barbier  offered  her,  for  instance, 
a  daily  French  lesson.  She  grasped  in  an  instant  the 
facilities  which  even  the  merest  smattering  of  French 
would  give  her  in  Paris  ;  every  night  she  sat  up  over 
her  phrase  book,  and  every  afternoon  she  cut  her  work 
short  to  go  to  Barbier.  Her  whole  life  seemed  to  be 
one  flame  of  passionate  expectation,  though  what 
exactly  she  expected  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say. 

Poor  Dora !  She  had  suffered  many  things  in 
much  patience  all  these  weeks.  Louie's  clear,  hard 
mind,  her  sensuous  temperament,  her  apparent  lack 
of  all  maidenly  reserve,  all  girlish  softness,  made  her 
incomprehensible  to  one  for  whom  life  Avas  an  irides- 
cent web  of  ideal  aims  and  obligations.  The  child  of 
grace  was  dragged  out  of  her  own  austere  or  delicate 
thoughts,  and  made  to  touch,  taste,  and  handle  what 
the  'world,'  as  the  Christian  understands  it,  might  be 
like.  Like  every  other  daughter  of  the  people,  Dora 
was  familiar  enough  with  sin  and  weakness — Daddy 
alone  had  made  her  amply  acquainted  with  both  at  one 
portion  or  another  of  his  career.  But  just  this  par- 
ticular temper  of  Louie's,  with  its  apparent  lack  both 
of  passion  and  of  moral  sense,  was  totally  new  to  her, 
and  produced  at  times  a  stifling  impression  upon  her, 
without  her  being  able  to  explain  to  herself  with  any 
clearness  what  was  the  matter. 

Yet,  in  truth,  it  often  seemed  as  if  the  lawless 
creature  had  been  in  some  sort  touched  by  Dora,  as  if 
daily  contact  with  a  being  so  gentle  and  so  magnani- 
mous had  won  even  upon  her.  That  confidence,  for 
instance,  which  Louie  had  promised  John,  at  Dora's 
expense,  had  never  been  made.  When  it  came  to  the 
point,  some  touch  of  remorse,  of  shame,  had  sealed  the 
girl's  mocking  lips. 

One   little    fact    in   particular   had   amazed   Dora. 


CIIAI'.    X 


YOUTH  410 


Louie  insisted,  for  a  caprice,  on  going  with  her  one 
night,  in  Easter  week,  to  St.  Damian's,  and  thence- 
forward went  often.  What  attracted  her,  Dora  ])uz- 
zled  herself  to  discover.  When,  however,  Louie  had 
been  a  diligent  spectator,  even  at  early  services,  for 
some  weeks,  Dora  timidly  urged  that  she  might  be 
eontirmed,  and  that  Father  liussell  would  take  her 
into  his  class.  Louie  laughed  immoderately  at  the 
idea,  but  continued  to  go  to  St.  Damian's  all  the  same. 
Dora  could  not  bear  to  be  near  her  in  church,  but 
however  far  away  she  might  place  herself,  she  was 
more  conscious  than  she  liked  to  be  of  Louie's  con- 
spicuous figure  and  luit  thrown  out  against  a  particular 
pillar  which  the  girl  affected.  The  sharp  uplifted 
profile  with  its  disdainful  expression  drew  her  eyes 
against  their  will.  She  was  also  constantly  aware  of 
the  impression  Louie  made  upon  the  crowd,  of  the 
Avay  in  which  she  was  stared  at  and  remarked  upon. 
Whenever  she  passed  in  or  out  of  the  church,  people 
turned,  and  the  girl,  expecting  it,  and  totally  una- 
bashed, flashed  her  proud  look  from  side  to  side. 

But  once  in  her  place,  she  was  not  inattentive.  The 
dark  chancel  with  its  flowers  and  incense,  the  rich 
dresses  and  slow  movements  of  the  priests,  the  excite- 
ment of  the  processional  hymns — these  things  caught 
her  and  held  her.  Her  look  was  fixed  and  eager  all 
the  time.  As  to  the  clergy,  Dora  spoke  to  Father 
Russell's  sister,  and  some  efforts  were  made  to  get 
hold  of  the  new-comer.  r)Ut  none  of  them  were  at  all 
successful.  The  girl  slipped  through  everybody's 
hands.  Only  in  the  case  of  one  of  the  curates,  a  man 
with  a  powerful,  ugly  head,  and  a  penetrating  person- 
ality, did  she  show  any  wavering.  Dora  fancied  that 
she  put  herself  once  or  twice  in  his  way,  that  some- 
thing about  him  attracted  her,  and  that  he  might  have 
influenced  her.     But  as  soon  as  the  I'aris  project  rose 


416  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

on  the  horizon,  Louie  thought  of  nothing  else.  Father 
Impe}'  and  St.  Damian's,  like  everything  else,  were 
forgotten.  She  never  went  near  the  church  from  the 
evening  David  told  her  his  news  to  the  day  they  left 
Manchester. 

David  ran  in  to  say  good-bye  to  Daddy  and  Dora  on 
the  night  before  they  were  to  start.  Since  the  Paris 
journey  had  been  in  the  air,  Daddy's  friendliness  for 
the  young  fellow  had  revived.  He  was  not,  after  all, 
content  to  sit  at  home  upon  his  six  hundred  pounds 
'  like  a  hatching  hen,'  and  so  far  Daddy,  whose  interest 
in  him  had  been  for  the  time  largely  dashed  by  his 
sudden  accession  to  fortune,  was  appeased. 

When  David  appeared  Lomax  was  standing  on  the 
rug,  with  a  book  under  his  arm. 

'Well,  good-bye  to  you,  young  man,  good-bye  to 
you.  And  here's  a  book  to  take  with  you  that  you 
may  read  in  the  train.  It  will  stir  you  up  a  bit,  give 
you  an  idea  or  two.     Don't  you  come  back  too  soon.' 

'Father,'  remonstrated  Dora,  who  was  standing  by, 
'  who's  to  look  after  his  business  ? ' 

'  Be  quiet,  Dora  !  That  book  '11  show  him  what  can 
be  made  even  of  a  beastly  bookseller.' 

David  took  it  from  him,  looked  at  the  title,  and 
laughed.  He  knew  it  well.  It  was  the  '  Life  and 
Errors  of  John  Dunton,  Citizen  of  London,'  the  ec- 
centric record  of  a  seventeenth-century  dealer  in  books, 
who,  like  Daddy,  had  been  a  character  and  a  vagrant. 

'  Och  !  Don't  I  know  it  by  heart  ?  '  said  Daddy,  with 
enthusiasm.  '  Many  a  time  it's  sent  me  off  tramping, 
when  my  poor  Isabella  thought  she'd  got  me  tied  safe 
by  the  heels  in  the  chimney  corner.  "  Though  love  is 
strong  as  death,  and  every  good  man  loves  his  wife  as 
himself,  yet — many's  the  score  of  times  I've  said  it  off 
pat  to  Isabella — yet  I  cannot  tliink  of  being  confined 


Cll.Vl'. 


YOUTH  417 


ill  a  narrower  study  than  thu  whole  world."  There's 
a  man  for  you !  He  gets  rid  of  one  wife  and  saddles 
himself  with  another — sorrow  a  bit  will  he  stop  at 
home  for  either  of  them!  "Finding  I  am  for  trav- 
elling, Valeria,  to  show  the  height  of  her  love,  is  as 
willing  I  should  see  Europe  as  Eliza  was  1  should  see 
America."  Och  !  give  me  the  book,  you  divil,'  cried 
Daddy,  growing  more  and  more  Hibernian  as  his  pas- 
sion rose,  '  and,  bedad,  but  I'll  drive  it  into  you.' 

And,  reaching  over.  Daddy  seized  it,  and  turned  over 
the  pages  with  a  trembling  hand.  Dora  flushed,  and 
the  tears  rose  into  her  eyes.  She  realised  perfectly 
that  this  performance  was  levelled  at  her  at  least  as 
much  as  at  David.  Daddy's  mad  irritability  had  grown 
of  late  with  every  week. 

*  Listen  to  this,  Davy  ! '  cried  Daddy,  putting  up  his 
hand  for  silence.  '  "  When  I  have  crossed  the  Helles- 
pont, where  poor  Leander  was  drowned,  Greece,  China, 
and  the  Holy  Land  are  the  other  three  countries  I'm 
bound  to.     And  perhaps  when  my  hand  is  in "'  ' 

'My  hand  is  in."  repeated  Daddy,  in  an  ecstasy. 
'  What  a  jewel  of  a  man  ! ' 

'  I  may  step  thence  to  the  Indies,  for  I  am  a  true, 
lover  of  travels,  and,  when  I  am  once  mounted,  care 
not  whether  I  meet  the  sun  at  his  rising  or  going 
down,  provided  only  I  may  but  ramble  .  .  .  He  is 
truly  a  scholar  who  is  versed  in  the  volume  of  the 
Universe,  who  doth  not  so  much  read  of  Xature  as 
study  Xature  herself.' 

'  Well  said — well  said  indeed  I '  cried  Daddy,  fling- 
ing the  book  down  with  a  wild  gesture  which  startled 
them  botli.  '  Was  that  the  man,  Adrian  Lomax,  to 
spend  the  only  hours  of  the  only  life  he  was  ever  likely 
to  see — his  first  thought  in  the  morning,  and  his  last 
thought  at  night — in  tickling  the  stomachs  of  Man- 
chester clerks  '.' ' 

VOL.  I  2  E 


418  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE       book  ii 

His  peaked  chin  and  straggling  locks  fell  forward 
on  his  breast.  He  stared  sombrely  at  the  young  peo- 
ple before  him,  in  an  attitude  which,  as  usual,  was  the 
attitude  of  an  actor. 

David's  natural  instinct  was  to  jeer.  But  a  glance 
at  Dora  perplexed  him.  There  was  some  tragedy  he 
did  not  understand  under  this  poor  comedy. 

'  Don't  speak  back,'  said  Dora,  hurriedly,  under  her 
breath,  as  she  passed  him  to  get  her  frame.  '  It  only 
makes  him  worse.' 

After  a  few  minutes'  broken  chat,  which  Daddy's 
mood  made  it  difficult  to  keep  up,  David  took  his 
departure.     Dora  followed  him  downstairs. 

'You're  going  to  be  away  a  fortnight,'  she  said, 
timidly. 

As  she  spoke,  she  moved  her  head  backwards  and 
forwards  against  the  wall,  as  though  it  ached,  and  she 
could  not  find  a  restful  spot. 

'  Oh,  we  shall  be  back  by  then,  never  fear ! '  said 
David,  cheerfully.  He  Avas  growing  more  and  more 
sorry  for  her. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  foreign  parts,'  she  said  wist- 
fully. 'Is  there  a  beautiful  church,  a  cathedral,  in 
Paris  ?  Oh,  there  are  a  great  many  in  France,  I  know .' 
I've  heard  the  people  at  St.  Damian's  speak  of  them. 
I  would  like  to  see  the  services.  But  they  can't  be 
nicer  than  ours.' 

David  smiled. 

'  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you  much  about  them,  Miss 
Dora;  they  aren't  in  my  line.  Good-bye,  and  keej) 
your  heart  up.' 

He  was  going,  but  he  turned  back  to  say  quickly — 

'  Why  don't  you  let  him  go  off  for  a  bit  of  a  tramp  ? 
It  might  quiet  him.' 

'  I  would  ;  I  would,'  she  said  eagerly  ;  '  but  I  don't 
know  what  would  come  of  it.     We're  dreadfully  be- 


CHAP.  X 


YOUTH  419 


hindhand  this  month,  and  if  he  were  to  go  away, 
people  wouhl  be  down  on  us ;  they'd  think  he  wanted 
to  get  out  of  paying.' 

He  stayed  talking  a  bit,  trying  to  advise  her,  and, 
in  the  first  place,  trying  to  find  out  how  wrong  things 
were.  But  she  had  not  yet  come  to  the  point  of  dis- 
closing her  father's  secrets.  She  parried  his  questions, 
showing  him  all  the  while,  by  look  and  voice,  that  she 
was  grateful  to  him  for  asking — for  caring. 

He  went  at  last,  and  she  locked  the  door  behind 
him.  But  when  that  was  done,  she  stood  still  in  the 
dark,  wringing  her  hands  in  a  silent  jxassion  of  longing 
— longing  to  be  with  him,  outside,  in  the  night,  to  hear 
his  voice,  to  see  his  handsome  looks  again.  Oh  !  the 
fortnight  would  be  long.  So  long  as  he  was  there, 
within  a  stone's  throw,  though  he  did  not  love  her,  and 
she  was  sad  and  anxious,  yet  ^Manchester  held  her  treas- 
ure, and  ]\lanchester  streets  had  glamour,  had  charm. 

He  walked  to  Piccadilly,  and  took  a  'bus  to  Mor- 
timer Street.  He  must  say  good-bye  also  to  INIr. 
Ancrum,  who  had  been  low  and  ill  of  late. 

'  So  you  are  off,  David  ? '  said  Ancrum,  rousing 
himself  from  what  seemed  a  melancholy  brooding 
over  books  that  he  was  in  truth  not  reading.  As 
David  shook  hands  with  him,  the  small  fusty  room, 
the  pale  face  and  crippled  form  awoke  in  the  lad  a 
sense  of  indescribable  dreariness.  In  a  flash  of  recoil 
and  desire  his  thought  sprang  to  the  journey  of  the 
next  day — to  the  Maj^  seas — the  foreign  land. 

'Well,  good  luck  to  you!'  said  the  minister,  alter- 
ing his  position  so  as  to  look  at  his  visitor  full,  and 
doing  it  with  a  slowness  which  showed  that  all  move- 
ment was  an  effort.     '  Look  after  you  sister,  Davy.' 

David  had  sat  down  at  Ancrum's  invitation.  He 
said  nothing  in  answer  to  this  last  remark,  and  Ancrum 


420  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE       book  ii 

could  not  decipher  him  in  the  darkness  visible  of  the 
ill-trimmed  lamp. 

'  She's  been  on  your  mind,  Davy,  hasn't  she  ?  '  he 
said,  genth",  laying  his  blanched  hand  on  the  young 
man's  knee. 

'Well,  perhaps  she  has,'  David  admitted,  with  an 
odd  note  in  his  voice.  '  She's  not  an  easy  one  to 
manage.' 

'  Xo.  But  you've  got  to  manage  her,  Davy. 
There's  only  you  and  she  together.  It's  your  task. 
It's  set  you.  And  you're  young,  indeed,  and  raw, 
to  have  that  beautiful  self-willed  creature  on  your 
hands.' 

'Beautiful?  Do  you  think  she's  that?'  David 
tried  to  laugh  it  off. 

The  minister  nodded. 

'You'll  find  it  out  in  Paris  even  more  than  3-ou 
have  here.  Paris  is  a  bad  place,  they  sa}-.  So's  Lon- 
don, for  the  matter  of  that.  Davy,  before  you  go,  I've 
got  one  thing  to  say  to  you.' 

'  Say  away,  sir.' 

'  You  know  a  great  deal,  Davy.  My  wits  are  noth- 
ing to  yours.  You'll  shoot  ahead  of  all  your  old 
friends,  my  boy,  some  day.  But  there's  one  thing 
3^ou  know  nothing  about — absolutely  nothing — and 
you  prate  as  if  you  did.  Perhaps  you  must  turn 
Christian  before  you  do.  I  don't  know.  At  least,  so 
long  as  you're  not  a  Christian  you  won't  knoAv  what 
loe  mean  by  it — what  the  Bible  means  by  it.  It's  one 
little  word,  Davy — sin.'' 

Tlie  minister  spoke  with  a  deep  intensity,  as  though 
his  whole  being  were  breathed  into  what  he  said. 
David  sat  silent  and  embarrassed,  opposition  rising  in 
him  to  what  he  tliouglit  ministerial  assumption. 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  he  said,  after 
a  pause.     '  One  needn't  be  very  old  to  find  out  that  a 


CHAP.    X 


YOUTH  421 


good  many  people  and  things  in  the  world  are  pretty- 
bad.  Only  we  Secularists  explain  it  differently  from 
you.  We  put  a  good  deal  of  it  down  to  education,  or 
health,  or  heredity.' 

'Oh,  I  know — I  know!'  said  the  minister  hastily, 
as  though  shrinking  from  the  conversation  he  had 
himself  evoked.  '  I'm  not  fit  to  talk  about  it,  Davy. 
I'm  ill,  I  think !  But  there  were  those  two  things  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you — your  sister — and ' 

His  voice  dropped.  He  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked 
away  from  David  into  the  smouldering  coals. 

<]Sro— no,'  he  resumed  almost  in  a  whisper;  'it's 
the  will— it's  the  icill.  It's  not  anything  he  says,  and 
Christ— 67i/7'sf  's  the  only  help.' 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  David  studied  his  old 
teacher  attentively,  as  far  as  the  half-light  availed 
him.  The  young  man  was  simply  angry  with  a  relig- 
ion wliich  could  torment  a  soul  and  body  like  this. 
Ancrum  had  been  •  down '  in  this  way  for  a  long  time 
now.  Was  another  of  his  black  fits  approaching  ?  If 
so,  religion  was  largely  responsible  for  them  ! 

When  at  last  David  sighted  his  own  door,  he  per- 
ceived a  figure  lounging  on  the  steps. 

'I  say,'  he  said  to  himself  with  a  groan,  'it's  John!' 

'  What  on  earth  do  you  want,  John,  at  this  time  of 
night  ?  '  he  demanded.     But  he  knew  perfectly. 

'Look  here!'  said  the  other  thickly,  'it's  all  straight. 
You're  coming  back  in  a  fortnight,  and  you'll  bring 
her  back  too  ! ' 

David  laughed  impatiently. 

'  Do  you  think  I  shall  lose  lier  in  Paris  or  drop  her 
in  the  Channel  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Dalby,  with  a  curiously  heavy 
and  indistinct  utterance.  'She's  very  bad  to  me. 
She  won't  ever  marry  me  ;  I  know  that.     But  when  I 


422  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID  GR1P:VE       hook   ii 

think  I  might  never  see  her  again  I'm  fit  to  go  and 
hang  myself.' 

David  began  to  kick  the  pebbles  in  the  road. 

'  You  know  what  I  think  about  it  all,'  he  said 
at  last,  gloomily.  'I've  told  you  before  now.  She 
couldn't  care  for  you  if  she  tried.  It  isn't  a  ha'p'orth 
of  good.  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  care  for  anybody. 
Anyway,  she'll  marry  nobody  who  can't  give  her 
money  and  fine  clothes.  There  !  You  may  put  that 
in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  for  it's  as  true  as  you 
stand  there.' 

John  turned  round  restlessly,  laid  his  hands  against 
the  wall,  and  his  head  upon  them. 

'  Well,  it  don't  matter,'  he  said  slowly,  after  a  pause. 
'  I'll  be  here  early.     Good  night ! ' 

David  stood  and  looked  after  him  in  mingled  disgust 
and  pity. 

'  I  must  pack  him  off,'  he  said,  '  I  must.' 

Then  he  threw  back  his  young  shoulders  and  drew 
in  the  warm  spring  air  with  a  long  breath.  Away 
with  care  and  trouble  !  Things  would  come  right — 
must  come  right.  This  weather  was  summer,  and  in 
forty-eight  hours  they  would  be  in  Paris  ! 


BOOK   III 
STOKM  AND  STRESS 


CHAPTER   I 

The  brother  and  sister  left  Manchester  about  midday, 
and  spent  the  night  in  London  at  a  little  City  hotel 
much  frequented  by  Nonconformist  ministers,  which 
Ancrum  had  recommended. 

Then  next  day  !  How  little  those  to  whom  all  the 
widest  opportunities  of  life  come  for  the  asking,  can 
imagine  such  a  zest,  such  a  freshness  of  pleasure  I 
David  had  hesitated  long  before  the  expense  of  the 
day  service  vid  Calais ;  they  could  have  gone  by  night 
third  class  for  half  the  money ;  or  they  could  have 
taken  returns  by  one  of  the  cheaper  and  longer  routes. 
But  the  eagerness  to  make  the  most  of  every  hour 
of  time  and  daylight  prevailed;  they  were  to  go  by 
Calais  and  come  back  by  Die])pe,  seeing  thereby  as 
much  as  possible  on  the  two  journeys  in  addition  to 
the  fortnight  in  Paris.  The  mere  novelty  of  going 
anything  but  third  class  was  full  of  savour ;  Louie's 
self-conscious  dignity  as  she  settled  herself  into  her 
corner  on  leaving  Charing  Cross  caught  David's  eye  ; 
he  saw  himself  reflected  and  laughed. 

It  Avas  a  glorious  day,  the  firstling  of  the  summer. 
Tu  the  blue  overhead  the  great  clouds  rose  intensely 
thunderously  white,  and  journeyed  seaward  under  a 
light  westerly  wind.  The  railway  banks,  the  copses 
were  all  primroses;  every  patch  of  Avater  had  in  it  the 
white  and  azure  of  the  sky ;  the  lambs  were  lying  in 
the  still  scanty  shadow  of   the  elms ;    every  garden 

425 


426  TIIK    IIISTOIJY   OF    DAVID   GRIEVE      book   hi 

showed  its  tupils  and  wallflowers,  and  the  air,  the  sun- 
lii;ht,  the  vividness  of  each  hue  and  line  bore  with 
them  an  intoxicating  joy,  especially  for  eyes  still 
adjusted  to  the  tones  and  lights  of  JManchester  in 
winter. 

The  breeze  carried  them  merrily  over  a  dancing  sea. 
And  once  on  the  French  side  they  spent  their  first 
liour  in  crossing  from  one  side  of  their  carriage  to  the 
other,  pointing  and  calling  incessantly.  For  the  first 
time  since  certain  rare  moments  in  their  childhood 
they  were  happy  together  and  at  one.  Mother  earth 
unrolled  for  them  a  corner  of  her  magic  show,  and 
they  took  it  like  children  at  the  play,  now  shouting, 
now  spell-bound. 

David  had  George  Sand's  '  jVfauprat '  on  his  knee,  but 
he  read  nothing  the  whole  day.  Never  had  he  used 
his  eyes  so  intently,  so  passionately.  Xothing  escaped 
them,  neither  the  detail  of  that  strange  and  beautiful 
fen  from  which  Amiens  rises — a  country  of  peat  and 
peat-cutters  where  the  green  plain  is  diapered  with 
innumerable  tiny  lakes  edged  with  black  heaps  of  turf 
and  daintily  set  with  scattered  trees — nor  the  delicate 
charm  of  the  forest  lands  about  Chantilly.  So  much 
thinner  and  gracefuller  these  woods  were  than  Eng- 
lish woods  !  French  art  and  skill  were  here  already 
in  the  wild  country.  Each  tree  stood  out  as  though 
it  had  been  personally  thought  for;  every  plantation 
was  in  regular  lines  ;  each  woody  walk  drove  straight 
from  point  to  point,  following  out  a  plan  orderly  and 
intricate  as  a  spider's  web. 

By  this  time  Louie's  fervour  of  curiosity  and  atten- 
tion had  very  much  abated ;  she  grew  tired  and  cross, 
and  jjresently  fell  asleep.  But,  with  every  mile  less 
between  them  and  Paris,  David's  pulse  beat  faster, 
and  his  mind  became  more  absorbed  in  the  flying 
scene.     He  hung   beside  the  window,  thrilling  with 


CHvr.  I  S'l'nliM    AND    STUKSS  127 

enchantment  and  delight,  drinking  in  the  soft  air,  the 
beauty  of  the  evening  clouds,  the  wonderful  greens 
and  silvers  and  fiery  browns  of  the  poplars.  His  mind 
was  full  of  images — the  deep  lily-sprinkled  lake 
wherein  Stenio,  Lelia's  poet  lover,  plunged  and  died ; 
the  grandiose  landscape  of  Victor  Hugo  ;  Rene  sitting 
on  the  cliftside,  and  looking  farewell  to  the  white 
home  of  his  cliildhood;  of  lines  from  'Childe  Harold' 
and  from  Shelley.  His  mind  was  in  a  ferment  of 
youth  aud  poetry,  and  the  France  he  saw  was  not  the 
workaday  France  of  peasant  and  high  road  and  fac- 
tory, but  the  creation  of  poetic  intelligence,  of  igno- 
rance and  fancy. 

I'aris  came  in  a  flash.  He  had  realised  to  the  full 
the  squalid  and  ever-widening  zone  of  London,  had 
frittered  away  his  expectations  almost,  in  the  passing 
it ;  but  here  the  great  city  had  hardly  announced  it- 
self before  they  were  in  the  midst  of  it,  shot  out  into 
the  noise,  and  glare,  and  crowd  of  the  Nord  station. 

They  had  \u)  luggage  to  wait  for,  and  David,  trem- 
bling with  excitement  so  that  he  could  hardly  give  the 
necessary  orders,  shouldered  the  bags,  got  a  cab  and 
gave  the  address.  Outside  it  was  still  twilight,  but 
the  lamps  were  lit  and  the  Boulevard  into  wliicli  they 
presently  turned  seemed  to  brother  and  sister  a  blaze 
of  light.  The  young  green  of  the  trees  glittered  under 
the  gas  like  the  trees  of  a  pantomime ;  the  kiosks 
threw  their  lights  out  upon  the  moving  crowd ;  shops 
and  cafes  were  all  shining  and  alive ;  and  on  either 
hand  rose  the  long  line  of  stately  houses,  unbroken 
by  any  London  or  ]\[anchester  scpialors  and  inequali- 
ties, towering  as  it  seemed  into  the  skies,  and  making 
for  the  great  spectacle  of  life  beneath  them  a  setting 
more  gay,  splendid,  and  complete  thaii  any  English- 
man in  his  own  borders  can  ever  see, 

Louie  had  turned  white  with  pleasure  and  excite- 


428  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE     rook  hi 

meut.  All  lier  dreams  of  gaiety  and  magnilicence,  of 
whicli  the  elements  had  been  gathered  from  the  illus- 
trated papers  and  the  Manchester  theatres,  were  more 
than  realised  by  these  Paris  gas-lights,  these  vast 
houses,  these  laughing  and  strolling  crowds. 

'Look  at  those  people  having  their  coffee  out  of 
doors,'  she  cried  to  David,  '  and  that  white  and  gold 
place  behind.  Goodness  !  what  they  must  spend  in 
gas !  And  just  look  at  those  two  girls — look,  quick — 
there,  with  the  young  man  in  the  black  moustache — 
they  are  loud,  but  aren't  their  dresses  just  sweet  ? ' 

She  craned  her  neck  out  of  window,  exclaiming 
— now  at  this,  now  at  that — till  suddenly  they  passed 
out  of  the  Boulevard  into  the  comparative  darkness  of 
side  ways.  Here  the  height  of  the  houses  produced 
a  somewhat  different  impression ;  Louie  looked  out 
none  the  less  keenly,  but  her  chatter  ceased. 

At  last  the  cab  drew  up  with  a  clatter  at  the  side  of 
a  particularly  dark  and  narrow  street,  ascending  some- 
what sharply  to  the  north-west  from  the  point  where 
they  stopped. 

'Xow  for  the  cona'en/e,'  said  David,  looking  round 
him,  after  he  had  paid  the  man. 

And  conning  Barbier's  directions  in  his  mind,  he 
turned  into  the  gateway,  and  made  boldly  for  a  cur- 
tained door  behind  which  shone  a  light. 

The  woman,  who  came  out  in  answer  to  his  knock, 
looked  him  all  over  from  head  to  foot,  while  he  ex- 
l^lained  himself  in  his  best  French. 

'  Tiens/  she  said,  indifferently,  to  a  man  behind  her, 
'  it's  the  people  for  No.  26 — cles  Anglais — 3f.  Paul  te 
Va  dit.     Hand  me  the  key.' 

The  honhomme  addressed — a  little,  stooping,  wizened 
creature,  with  china-blue  eyes,  showing  widely  in  his 
withered  face  under  the  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  his 
wife  was  holding — reached  a  key  from  a  board  on  the 
wall  and  gave  it  to  her. 


CHAP.  I  STORM    AND    STRESS  429 

The  woman  again  surveyed  them  botli,  the  3'oung 
man  and  the  girl,  and  seemed  to  debate  with  lierself 
whether  she  shouhl  take  the  trouble  to  be  civil. 
Finally  she  said  in  an  unE^raeions  voice — 

'  It's  the  fourth  tloor  to  the  right.  1  must  take  you 
up,  I  suppose.' 

David  thanked  her.  ;iiul  she  preceded  them  with  the 
light  through  a  door  opposite  and  uj)  some  stone  stairs. 

When  they  had  mounted  two  flights,  she  turned 
abruptly  on  the  landing — 

'You  take  the  appartement  from  M.  Dubois  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  David,  enchanted  to  find  that,  thanks  to 
old  Barbier's  constant  lessons,  he  could  both  under- 
stand and  reply  with  tolerable  ease;  'for  a  fortnight.' 

'  Take  care  ;  the  landlord  will  be  descending  on 
you ;  M.  Dubois  never  pays ;  he  may  be  turned  out 
any  day,  and  his  things  sold.  AYhere  is  Mademoiselle 
going  to  sleep  ?' 

'  l)ut  in  ]\I.  Dubois'  appartement'  said  David,  hop- 
ing this  time,  in  his  dismay,  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand ;  '  he  i)romised  to  arrange  everything.' 

*He  has  arranged  nothing.  Do  you  wish  that  I 
shoidd  provide  some  things  ?  You  can  hire  some 
furniture  from  me.     And  do  you  want  service  ?  ' 

The  woman  had  a  grasping  eye.  David's  frugal 
instincts  took  alarm. 

'  Merci,  IVfadame  !  My  sister  and  I  do  not  require 
much.  We  shall  wait  upon  ourselves.  If  Madame 
will  tell  us  the  name  of  some  restaurant  near ' 

Instead,  j\[adame  made  an  angry  sound  and  thrust 
the  key  abruptly  into  Louie's  hand,  David  being  laden 
with  the  bags. 

'  There  are  two  more  flights,'  she  said  roughly ; 
'then  turn  to  the  left,  and  go  up  the  staircase  straight 
in  front  of  you — first  door  to  the  right.  You've  got 
eyes  ;  you'll  find  the  way.' 


430  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  hi 

'Mais,  Madame — '  cried  David,  bewildered  by  these 
directions,  and  trying  to  detain  her. 

But  she  was  already  halfway  down  the  flight  below 
them,  throwing  back  remarks  which,  to  judge  from 
their  tone,  were  not  complimentary. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Louie  was  dropping  with 
fatigue,  and  beginning  to  be  much  out  of  temper. 
David  with  difficulty  assumed  a  hopeful  air,  and  up 
they  went  again.  Leading  off  the  next  landing  but 
one  they  found  a  narrow  passage,  and  at  the  end  of  it 
a  ladder-like  staircase.  At  the  top  of  this  they  came 
upon  a  corridor  at  right  angles,  in  which  the  first  door 
bore  the  welcome  figures  '  26.' 

*  All  right,'  said  David ;  '  here  we  are.  Now  we'll 
just  go  in,  and  look  about  us.  Then  if  you'll  sit  and 
rest  a  bit,  I'll  run  down  and  see  where  we  can  get 
something  to  eat.' 

'  Be  quick,  then — do,'  said  Louie.  '  I'm  just  fit  to 
drop.' 

"With  a  beating  heart  he  put  the  key  into  the  lock 
of  the  door.  It  fitted,  but  he  could  not  turn  it.  Both 
he  and  Louie  tried  in  vain. 

*  What  a  nuisance  ! '  said  he  at  last.  '  I  must  go 
and  fetch  up  that  woman  again.  You  sit  down  and 
wait.' 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  sound  below  of  quick  steps, 
and  of   a  voice,   a  woman's  voice,  humming  a  song. 

*  Some  one  coming,'  he  said  to  Louie  ;  '  perhaj)s  they 
understand  the  lock.' 

They  ran  down  to  the  landing  beloAV  to  reconnoitre. 
There  was,  of  course,  gas  on  the  staircase,  and  as  they 
hung  over  the  iron  railing  they  saw  mounting  towards 
them  a  young  girl.  She  wore  a  light  fawn-coloured 
dress  and  a  hat  covered  with  Parma  violets.  Hearing 
voices  above  her,  she  threw  her  head  back,  and  stopped 
a  moment.     Louie's  eye  was  caught  by  her  hand  and 


ciiAi'.  I  STURM    AND   STRESS  431 

its  tiny  wrist  as  it  lay  on  the  balustrade,  and  by  the 
coils  and  twists  of  her  fair  hair.  David  saw  no  details, 
only  what  seemed  to  him  a  miracle  of  grace  and  colour, 
born  in  an  instant,  out  of  the  dark — or  out  of  his  own 
excited  fancy  ".' 

She  came  slowly  up  the  steps,  looking  at  them,  at 
the  tall  dark  youth  and  the  girl  beside  him.  Then 
on  the  top  step  she  paused,  instead  of  going  past  them. 
David  took  off  his  hat,  but  all  the  practical  questions 
he  had  meant  to  ask  deserted  him.  His  French 
seemed  to  have  flown. 

*  You  are  strangers,  aren't  you  ?  '  she  said,  in  a  clear, 
high,  somewhat  imperious  voice.  'What  number  do 
you  want  ? ' 

Her  expression  had  a  certain  hauteur,  as  of  one 
defending  her  native  ground  against  intruders.  Under 
the  stimulus  of  it  David  found  his  tongue. 

'  We  have  taken  M.  Paul  Dubois'  rooms,'  he  said. 
'We  have  found  his  door,  but  the  key  the  concierge 
gave  us  does  not  fit  it.' 

She  laughed,  a  free,  frank  laugh,  which  had  a  cer- 
tain wild  note  in  it. 

'These  doors  have  to  be  coaxed,'  she  said;  'the}^ 
don't  like  foreigners.  Give  it  me.  This  is  my  way, 
too.' 

Stepping  past  them,  she  preceded  them  up  the  nar- 
row stairs,  and  was  just  about  to  try  the  key  in  the 
lock,  when  a  sudden  recollection  seemed  to  flash  upon 
her. 

'I  know!'  she  said,  turning  upon  them.  '  Tenez — 
que  je  stiis  Mle !  You  are  Dubois'  English  friends. 
He  told  me  something,  and  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
it.     You  are  going  to  take  his  rooms  ?  ' 

'For  a  week  or  two,'  said  David,  irritated  a  little 
by  the  laughing  malice,  the  sarcastic  wonder  of  her 
eyes,  '  while  he  is  doing  some  work  in  Brussels.     It 


432  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE     book  hi 

seemed  a  convenient  arrangement,  but  if  we  are  not 
pomfortable  we  shall  go  elsewhere.  If  you  can  open 
the  door  for  us  Ave  shall  be  greatly  obliged  to  you, 
Mademoiselle.  But  if  not  I  must  go  down  for  the 
concierge.  We  have  been  travelling  all  day,  and  my 
sister  is  tired.' 

'  Where  did  you  learn  such  good  French  ?  '  she  said 
carelessly,  at  the  same  time  leaning  her  weight  against 
the  door,  and  manipulating  the  key  in  such  a  way  that 
the  lock  turned,  and  the  door  tiew  open. 

Behind  it  appeared  a  large  dark  space.  The  light 
from  the  gas-jet  in  the  passage  struck  into  it,  but 
beyond  a  chair  and  a  tall  screen-like  object  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  it  seemed  to  David  to  be  empty. 

'That's  his  atelier,  of  course,'  said  the  unknown; 
'and  mine  is  next  to  it,  at  the  other  end.  I  suppose 
he  has  a  cupboard  to  sleep  in  somewhere.  Most  of  us 
have.  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  Dubois.  I 
don't  like  him.     He  is  not  one  of  my  friends.' 

She  spoke  in  a  dry,  masculine  voice,  which  contrasted 
in  the  sharpest  Avay  with  her  youth,  her  dress,  her 
dainty  smallness.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  her  eyes 
travelled  over  the  English  pair  standing  bewildered 
on  the  threshold  of  Dubois'  most  uninviting  apartment, 
she  began  to  laugh  again.  Evidently  the  situation 
seemed  to  her  extremely  odd. 

'Did  you  ask  the  people  downstairs  to  get  anything 
ready  for  you  ?  '  she  inquired. 

'  Xo,'  said  David,  hesitating ;  '  we  thouglit  we  could 
manage  for  ourselves.' 

'Well — perhaps — after  the  first,'  she  said,  still 
laughing.  '  But — I  may  as  well  warn  you — the  Meri- 
chat  will  be  very  uncivil  to  you  if  you  don't  manage 
to  pay  her  for  something.  Hadn't  you  better  explore  ? 
That  thing  in  the  middle  is  Dubois'  easel,  of  course.' 

David  groped  his  way  in,  took  some  matches  from 


CHAP.  I  STORM    AND   STRESS  433 

his  pocket,  found  a  gas-bracket  with  some  difficulty, 
and  lit  ui).  Then  he  ami  Louie  looked  round  them. 
They  saw  a  gaunt  high  room,  lit  on  one  side  by  a  huge 
studio-window,  over  which  various  tattered  blinds 
were  drawn  ;  a  floor  of  bare  boards,  with  a  few  rags  of 
carpet  here  and  there  ;  in  the  middle,  a  table  covered 
with  painter's  apparatus  of  different  kinds ;  palettes, 
paints,  rags,  tin-pots,  and,  thrown  down  amongst  them, 
some  stale  crusts  of  bread;  a  large  easel,  with  a  num- 
ber of  old  and  dirty  canvases  piled  upon  it ;  two  chairs, 
one  of  them  without  the  usual  complement  of  legs ; 
a  few  etchings  and  oil-sketches  and  fragments  of 
coloured  stuffs  pinned  against  the  wall  in  wild  confu- 
sion ;  and,  S})read  out  casually  behind  the  easel,  an 
iron  folding-bedstead,  without  either  mattress  or  bed- 
clothes. In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  a  smeared 
kettle  on  a  spirit-stove,  and  a  few  odds  and  ends  of 
glass  and  china  were  on  the  mantelpiece,  together 
with  a  paraffin-lamp.  Every  article  in  the  room  was 
thick  in  dust. 

AVhen  she  had,  more  or  less,  ascertained  these 
attractive  details,  Loixie  stood  still  in  the  middle  of 
M.  Dubois'  apartment. 

'  What  did  he  tell  all  those  lies  for  ? '  she  said  to 
David  fiercely.  For  in  the  very  last  communication 
received  from  him,  Dubois  had  described  himself  as 
liaving  made  all  necessary  preparations  '  et  pour  la 
toilette  et  pour  h  manger.'  He  had  also  asked  for  the 
rent  in  advance,  which  David  with  some  demur  had 
paid. 

'Here's  something,'  cried  David;  and,  turning  a 
handle  in  the  wall,  he  pulled  a  flimsy  door  open  and 
disclosed  what  seemed  a  cupboard.  The  cupboard, 
however,  contained  a  bed,  some  bedding,  blankets,  and 
washing  arrangements;  and  David  joyously  announced 
his  discoveries.     Louie  took  no   notice  of  him.     She 

VOL.  I  2  F 


434  THE  HISTORY  OP  DAVID  GRIEVE     book  in 

was  tired,  angry,  disgusted.  The  illusion  of  Paris  was, 
for  the  moment,  all  gone.  She  sat  herself  down  on 
one  of  the  two  chairs,  and,  taking  off  her  hat,  she 
threw  it  from  her  on  to  the  belittered  table  with  a 
passionate  gesture. 

The  French  girl  had  so  far  stood  just  outside, 
leaning  against  the  doorway,  and  looking  on  with 
unabashed  amusement  while  they  made  their  inspec- 
tion. Kow,  however,  as  Louie  uncov^ered,  the  specta- 
tor at  the  door  made  a  little,  quick  sound,  and  then 
ran  forward. 

' 3fais,  mon  Dieu!  how  handsome  you  are!'  she 
said  with  a  whimsical  eagerness,  stopping  short  in  front 
of  Louie,  and  driving  her  little  hands  deep  into  the 
pockets  of  her  jacket.  '  What  a  head  !— what  eyes  ! 
Why  didn't  I  see  before  ?  You  must  sit  to  me — you 
must!  You  will,  won't  you?  I  will  pay  you  anything 
you  like  !  You  sha'n't  be  dull — somebody  shall  come 
and  amuse  you.  Voyons — monsieur!^  she  called  im- 
periously. 

David  came  up.  She  stood  with  one  hand  on  the 
table  leaning  her  light  weight  backward,  looking  at 
them  with  all  her  eyes — the  very  embodiment  of 
masterful  caprice. 

'  Both  of  them  ! '  she  said  under  her  breath,  'superbe ! 
Monsieur,  look  here.  You  and  mademoiselle  are  tired. 
There  is  nothing  in  these  rooms.  Dubois  is  a  scamp 
without  a  sou.  He  does  no  work,  and  he  gambles  on 
the  Bourse.  Everything  he  had  he  has  sold  by  de- 
grees. If  he  has  gone  to  Brussels  now  to  work  hon- 
estly, it  is  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  lives  on 
the  hope  of  getting  money  out  of  an  uncle  in  England 
— that  I  know,  for  he  boasts  of  it  to  everj^body.  It  is 
just  like  him  to  play  a  practical  joke  on  strangers. 
Xo  doubt  you  have  paid  him  already — n'est-ce  ikis  7  I 
thought  as  much.     Well,  never  mind  !     My  rooms  are 


CHAP.  II  STORM   AND   STRESS  430 

next  door.  I  am  Elise  Deliiuuay.  I  work  in  Taranne's 
(itelier.  I  am  an  artist,  pure  and  simple,  and  I  live  to 
please  myself  and  nobody  else.  But  1  have  a  chair  or 
two,  and  the  woman  downstairs  looks  after  me  because 
i  make  it  worth  her  while.  Come  with  me.  1  will 
give  you  some  supper,  and  I  will  lend  you  a  rug  and  a 
I)illow  for  that  bed.  Then  to-morrow  you  can  decide 
what  to  do.' 

David  protested,  stammering  and  smiling.  But  he 
had  Hushed  a  rosy  red,  and  there  was  no  real  resist- 
ance in  him.  He  explained  the  invitation  to  Louie, 
who  had  been  looking  lielplessly  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  she  at  once  accepted  it.  She  understood 
perfectly  that  the  French  girl  admired  her ;  her  face 
relaxed  its  frown ;  she  iiodded  to  the  stranger  with  a 
sort  of  proud  yielding,  and  then  let  herself  be  taken 
by  the  arm  and  led  once  more  along  the  corridor. 

Elise  Delaunay  unlocked  her  own  door. 

'  Bien ! '  she  said,  putting  her  head  in  first,  '  Meri- 
chat  has  earned  her  money.  Xow  go  in — go  in ! — and 
see  if  I  don't  give  you  some  suj)per,' 


CHAPTER  II 

She  pushed  them  in,  and  shut  the  door  behind  them. 
They  looked  round  them  in  amazement.  Here  was  an 
atelier  precisely  corresponding  in  size  and  outlook  to 
Dubois'.  But  to  their  tired  eyes  the  change  was  one 
from  squalor  to  fairyland.  The  room  was  not  in  fact 
luxurious  at  all.  But  there  was  a  Persian  rug  or  two 
on  the  ]wlished  floor ;  there  was  a  Avood  fire  burning 
on  the  hearth,  and  close  to  it  there  was  a  low  sofa  or 
divan  covered  with  pieces  of  old  stuffs,  and  flanked 
bv  a  table  whereon  stood  a  little  meal,  a  roll,  some  cut 


436  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  hi 

ham,  part  of  a  flat  fruit  tart  from  the  ])dtissier  next 
door,  a  coffee  pot,  and  a  spirit  kettle  ready  for  light- 
ing. There  were  two  easels  in  the  room ;  one  was 
laden  with  sketches  and  photographs ;  the  other  carried 
a  half-finished  picture  of  a  mosque  interior  in  Oran— 
a  rich  splash  of  colour,  making  a  centre  for  all  the 
rest.  Everywhere  indeed,  on  the  walls,  on  the  floor, 
or  standing  on  the  chairs,  were  studies  of  Algeria,  done 
with  an  ostentatiously  bold  and  rapid  hand.  On  the 
mantelpiece  was  a  small  reproduction  in  terra  cotta 
of  one  of  Dalou's  early  statues,  a  peasant  woman  in 
a  long  cloak  straining  her  homely  baby  to  her  breast 
— true  and  passionate.  Books  lay  about,  and  in  a 
corner  was  a  piano,  open,  with  a  confusion  of  tattered 
music  upon  it.  And  everywhere,  as  it  seemed  to 
Louie,  were  shoes ! — the  daintiest  and  most  fantastic 
shoes  imaginable— Turkish  shoes,  Pompadour  shoes, 
old  shoes  and  new  shoes,  shoes  with  heels  and  shoes 
without,  shoes  lined  Avith  fur,  and  shoes  blown  to- 
gether, as  one  might  think,  out  of  cardboard  and  rib- 
bons. The  English  girl's  eyes  fastened  upon  them  at 
once. 

'Ah,  you  tink  my  shoes  pretty,'  said  the  hostess, 
speaking  a  few  words  of  English,  ^c'est  mon  clada, 
voyez-vous — ma  coUection! — Tenez — I  cannot  say  dat  in 
English,  Monsieur ;  explain  to  your  sister.  My  shoes 
are  my  passion,  next  to  my  foot.  I  am  not  pretty,  but 
my  foot  is  ravishing.  Dalou  modelled  it  for  his  Siren. 
That  turned  my  head.  Sit  doAvn,  jVIademoiselle — we 
will  find  some  plates.' 

She  pushed  Louie  into  a  corner  of  the  divan,  and 
then  she  went  over  to  a  cupboard  standing  against  the 
wall,  and  beckoned  to  David. 

'Take  the  plates — and  this  potted  meat.  Now  for 
the  petit  vin  my  doctor  cousin  brought  me  last  week 
from  the  family  estate.     I  have  stowed  it  away  some- 


CUM'.  II  STOKM    AND    STKKSS  437 

where.  Ah  I  here  it  is.  AVe  are  from  the  Gironde — 
at  least  ni\'  mother  was.  My  father  was  nobody — 
bourgeois  from  tip  to  toe,  thou<,di  he  culled  himself  an 
artist.  It  was  a  me.salluotre  for  her  when  she  married 
him.  Oil,  lit'  led  her  a  life  ! — she  died  when  I  was 
small,  and  last  year  he  died,  eleven  months  ago.  I 
(lid  my  best  to  er}-.  J m possible !  He  had  made  Ma- 
man  and  me  cry  too  mucli.  And  now  I  am  perfectly 
alone  in  the  world,  and  perfectly  well-behaved.  Mon- 
sieur Prudhomme  may  talk — I  snap  my  finger  at  him. 
You  will  have  your  ideas,  of  course.  Xo  matter  I  If 
you  eat  my  salt,  you  will  hardly  be  able  to  speak  ill 
of  me.' 

'  Mademoiselle  I '  cried  David,  inwardly  cursing  his 
shyness — a  shyness  new  to  him — and  his  complete 
apparent  lack  of  an3'thing  to  say,  or  the  means  of  say- 
ing it. 

•  ( )h,  don't  protest  I — after  that  journey  j-ou  can't 
afford  to  waste  your  breath.  Move  a  little.  Monsieur 
— let  me  open  the  other  door  of  the  cupboard — there 
are  some  chocolates  worth  eating  on  that  back  shelf. 
Do  you  admire  my  armoire?  It  is  old  Breton — it  be- 
longed to  my  grandmother,  who  was  from  jMorbihan. 
She  brought  her  linen  in  it.  It  is  cherry  wood,  you 
see,  mounted  in  silver.  You  may  search  Paris  for 
another  like  it.  Look  at  that  flower  work  on  the 
panels.  It  is  not  banal  at  all — it  has  character — there 
is  real  design  in  it.  Xoav  take  the  chocolates,  and 
these  sardines — put  them  down  over  there.  As  for 
me,  I  make  the  coffee.' 

She  ran  over  to  the  spirit  lamp,  and  set  it  going ; 
she  measured  out  the  coffee ;  then  sitting  dowai  on 
the  floor,  she  took  the  bellows  and  blew  up  the  logs. 

'  Tell  me  your  name,  Monsieur  ? '  she  said  sud- 
denly, looking  round. 

David  gave  it  in  full,  his  own  name  and  Louie's. 


438  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GRIEVE     book  iu 

Tlien  he  walked  up  to  her,  making  an  effort  to  be  at 
liis  ease,  and  said  something  about  their  French  de- 
scent. His  mode  of  speaking  was  slow  and  bookish — 
correct,  but  wanting  iu  life.  After  this  year's  devo- 
tion to  French  books,  after  all  his  compositions 
with  Barbier,  he  had  supposed  himself  so  familiar  with 
French !  AVith  the  woman  from  the  loge,  indeed,  he 
could  hav^e  talked  at  large,  had  she  been  conversa- 
tional instead  of  rude.  But  here,  with  this  little 
glancing  creature,  he  felt  himself  plunged  in  a  perfect 
quagmire  of  ignorance  and  stupidity.  When  he  spoke 
of  being  half  French,  she  became  suddenly  grave,  and 
studied  him  with  an  intent  piercing  look.  'No,'  she 
said  slowly,  '  no,  at  bottom  you  are  not  French  a  bit, 
you  are  all  English,  I  feel  it.  I  should  fight  you — 
(1  outraace !  Grive — what  a  strange  name  !  It's  a 
bird's  name.  You  are  not  like  it — you  do  not  belong 
to  it.     But  David ! — ah,  that  is  better.      Voyons ! ' 

She  sprang  up,  ran  over  to  the  furthest  easel,  and, 
routing  about  amongst  its  disorder  of  prints  and 
l)hotographs,  she  hit  upon  one,  which  she  held  up 
triumphantly. 

'There,  Monsieur  ! — there  is  your  prototype.  That 
is  David — the  young  David — scourge  of  the  Philis- 
tine. You  are  bigger  and  broader.  I  would  rather 
fight  him  than  you — but  it  is  like  you,  all  the  same. 
Take  it.' 

And  she  held  out  to  him  a  photograph  of  the 
Donatello  David  at  Florence — the  divine  young  hero 
in  his  shepherd's  hat,  fresh  from  the  slaying  of  the 
oppressor. 

He  looked  at  it,  red  and  wondering,  then  shook 
his  head. 

'  What  is  it  ?     Who  made  it,  Mademoiselle  ?  ' 

'■  Donatello — oh,  I  never  saw  it.  I  was  never  in 
Italy,  but  a  friend  gave  it  me.     It  is  like  you,  I  tell 


CHAP.  II  STOKM    AM)    STKKhS  430 

you.  But,  what  usi;  is  that  '.'  Vou  arc  English — yes, 
you  are,  in  s))ite  of  your  mother.  It  is  very  well  to  bo 
called  David — you  may  be  Goliath  all  the  time  I ' 

Her  tone  had  grown  hard  and  diy — insulting  almost. 
Her  look  sent  him  a  challenge. 

He  stared  at  her  dundjfounded.  All  the  self-con- 
fidence with  which  he  had  liitherto  governed  his  own 
world  had  deserted  liim.  He  was  like  a  tongue-tied 
child  in  her  hands. 

She  enjoyed  her  mastery,  and  his  discomfiture.  Her 
look  changed  and  melted  in  an  instant. 

•  I  am  rude,'  she  said,  '  and  you  can't  answer  me 
back — not  yet — for  a  day  or  two.  Pardon  !  IMonsieur 
David — Mademoiselle — Avill  you  come  to  sup})er?' 

She  put  chairs  and  waved  them  to  their  places  with 
the  joyous  animation  of  a  child,  waiting  on  them, 
fetching  this  and  that,  with  the  quickest,  most  grace- 
ful motions.  She  had  V)rought  from  i\\e  armoire  some 
fine  ■white  napkins,  and  now  she  produced  a  glass  or 
two  and  made  her  guests  provide  themselves  with  the 
red  Avine  which  neither  had  ever  tasted  before,  and 
over  which  Louie  made  an  involuntary  face.  Then 
she  began  to  chatter  and  to  eat — both  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible— now  laughing  at  her  own  English  or  at  David's 
French,  and  now  laying  down  her  knife  and  fork  that 
she  might  look  at  Louie,  with  an  intent  professional 
look  which  contrasted  oddly  with  the  wild  freedom  of 
her  talk  and  movements. 

Suddenly  she  took  up  a  wineglass  and  held  it  out  to 
David  with  a  piteous  childish  gesture. 

'Fill  it,  ]\lonsieur,  and  then  drink — drink  to  my 
good  luck.  I  wish  for  sometliing — with  my  life — my 
sold;  but  there  are  people  who  hate  me,  who  would 
delight  to  see  me  crushed.  And  it  will  be  three  weeks 
— three  long  long  weeks,  almost — before  I  know.' 

She  was  very  pale,  the   tears    had   sprung  to  her 


440  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE      book  hi 

eyes,  and  the  hand  holding  the  glass  trembled.  David 
flushed  and  frowned  in  the  vain  desire  to  understand 
her. 

'  What  am  I  to  do  ? '  he  said,  taking  the  glass 
mechanically,  but  making  no  use  of  it. 

'  Drink  ! — drink  to  my  success.  I  have  two  pictures. 
Monsieur,  in  the  Salon ;  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
the  same  as  y onv  Academie?  Par/a item,e)if !  ah!  you 
understand.  One  is  well  hung,  on  the  line ;  the  other 
has  been  shamefully  treated — but  shamefully !  And  all 
the  world  kuows  why.  I  have  some  enemies  on  the 
jury,  and  they  delight  in  a  mean  triumph  over  me — a 
triumph  which  is  a  scandal.  But  1  have  friends,  too — 
good  friends — and  in  three  weeks  the  rewards  will  be 
voted.  You  understand  ?  the  medals,  and  the  men- 
tions honorahles.  As  for  a  medal ! — no  !  I  am  only 
two  years  in  the  atelier ;  I  am  not  unreasonable.  But 
a  mention  ! — ah !  Monsieur  David,  if  they  don't  give  it 
me  I  shall  be  very  miserable.' 

Her  voice  had  gone  through  a  whole  gamut  of 
emotion  in  this  S[)eecli — pride,  elatiou,  hope,  anger, 
offended  dignity — sinking  finally  to  the  plaintive  note 
of  a  child  asking  for  consolation. 

And  luckily  David  had  followed  her.  His  French 
novels  had  brought  him  across  the  Salon  and  the  jury 
system  ;  and  Barbier  had  told  him  tales.  His  courage 
rose.  He  })Oured  the  wine  into  the  glass  with  a  quick, 
uncertain  hand,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

'  A  la  glorie  de  Mademoiselle ! '  he  cried,  tossing  it 
down  with  a  gesture  almost  as  free  and  vivid  as  her 
own. 

Her  eye  followed  him  with  excitement,  taking  in 
every  detail  of  the  action — the  masculine  breadth  of 
chest,  the  beauty  of  the  dark  head  and  short  upper 
lip. 

'Very   good — very  good!'    she  said,    clapping   her 


r-HAr.  II  STORM    AND    STKESS  441 

small  hands.     '  Vou  did  that  admirably — you  improve 
— n^est-ce  pas,  Mademoiselle  ?  ' 

But  Louie  only  stared  blankly  and  somewhat 
haughtily  in  return.  She  was  beginning  to  be  tired 
of  her  silent  rdle,  and  of  the  sort  of  subordination 
it  implied.  The  French  girl  seemed  to  divine  it,  nnd 
her. 

'She  does  not  like  me,'  she  said,  with  a  kind  of 
wonder  under  her  breath,  so  that  David  did  not  catch 
the  words.     '  The  other  is  quite  different.' 

Then,  springing  up,  she  searched  in  the  pockets  of 
her  jacket  for  something — lips  pursed,  brows  knitted, 
as  though  the  quest  were  important. 

'  Where  are  my  cigarettes  ?  '  she  demanded  sharply. 
'Ah!  here  they  are.     Mademoiselle — Monsieur.' 

Louie  laughed  rudely,  pushing  them  back  without 
a  word.  Then  she  got  up,  and  began  boldly  to  look 
about  her.  The  shoes  attracted  her,  and  some  Alge- 
rian scarves  and  burnouses  that  were  lying  on  a  dis- 
tant chair.     She  went  to  turn  them  over. 

Mademoiselle  Delaunay  looked  after  her  for  a 
moment — with  the  same  critical  attention  as  before — 
then  with  a  shrug  she  threw  herself  into  a  corner  of 
the  divan,  drawing  about  her  a  bit  of  old  embroidered 
stuff  which  lay  there.  It  was  so  flung,  however,  as  to 
leave  one  dainty  foot  in  an  embroidered  silk  stocking 
visible  beyond  it.  The  tone  of  the  stocking  was  re- 
peated in  the  bunch  of  violets  at  her  neck,  and  the 
purples  of  the  flowers  told  with  charming  effect 
against  her  white  skin  and  the  pale  fawn  colour  of  her 
dress  and  hair.  David  watched  her  with  intoxication. 
She  could  hardly  be  taller  than  most  children  of  four- 
teen, but  her  proportions  were  so  small  and  delicate 
that  her  height,  whatever  it  was,  seemed  to  him  the 
perfect  height  for  a  woman.  She  handled  her  ciga- 
rette with  mannish  airs ;  unless  it  were  some  old  har- 


442  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE      rook  hi 

ridan  in  a  collier's  cottage,  he  had  never  seen  a  woman 
smoke  before,  and  certainly  he  had  never  guessed  it 
could  become  her  so  well.  ISTot  pretty!  He  was  in 
no  mood  to  dissect  the  pale  irregular  face  with  its  subt- 
leties of  line  and  expression  ;  but,  as  she  sat  there 
smoking  and  chatting,  she  was  to  him  the  realisation 
— the  climax  of  his  dream  of  I'aris.  All  the  lightness 
and  grace  of  that  dream,  the  strangeness,  the  thrill  of 
it  seemed  to  have  passed  into  her. 

'  Will  you  stay  in  those  rooms  ? '  she  inquired, 
slowly  blowing  away  the  curls  of  smoke  in  front  of 
her. 

David  replied  that  he  could  not  yet  decide.  He 
looked  as  he  felt — in  a  difficulty. 

*0h  !  you  will  do  well  enough  there.  But  your  sis- 
ter—  Tenez!  There  is  a  family  on  the  floor  below — 
an  artist  and  his  wife.  I  have  known  them  take  j^e/i- 
sionuaires.  They  are  not  the  most  distinguished  per- 
sons in  the  world — mais  enfin! — it  is  not  for  long. 
Your  sister  might  do  worse  than  board  with  them.' 

David  thanked  her  eagerly.  He  would  make  all 
inquiries.  He  had  in  his  pocket  a  note  of  introduc- 
tion from  Dubois  to  Madame  Cervin,  and  another,  he 
believed,  to  the  gentleman  on  the  ground  floor — to 
M.  Montjoie,  the  sculptor. 

<Ah!  M.  Montjoie!' 

Her  brows  went  up,  her  grey  eyes  flashed.  As  for 
her  tone  it  was  half  amused,  half  contemptuous.  She 
began  to  speak,  moved  restlessly,  then  apparently 
thought  better  of  it. 

'After  all,'  she  said,  in  a  rapid  undertone,  'qu'e^t- 
ce  que  cela  me  fait  ?  AUons.  Why  did  you  come  here 
at  all,  instead  of  to  an  hotel,  for  so  short  a  time  ? ' 

He  explained  as  well  as  he  was  able. 

'You  wanted  to  see  something  of  French  life,  and 
French  artists  or  writers?'  she  repeated  slowly,  'and 


f-HAr.  II  STOKM    AND    STIJKSS  44?, 

you  coiiip  with  iiit  nulurt  ions  from  Xavier  Dubois  I 
C'est  flnVr,  ni.     Jlavf  you  .studied  art '." 

He  lauj^hed. 

'  Xo — except  in  l)ooks.' 

'  What  books  ? ' 

'Novels — (Jeorge  Sand's.' 

Tt  was  her  turn  to  laugh  now. 

'  Vou  are  really  too  amusing  I  Xo,  Monsieur,  no  ; 
you  interest  me.  I  hav^c  the  best  will  in  the  world 
towards  you ;  but  I  cannot  ask  Consuelos  and  Teveri- 
nos  to  meet  you.     Pas  j'ossible.     I  regret ' 

She  fell  into  silence  a  nu)ment,  studying  him  with 
a  merry  look.     Then  she  broke  out  again. 

'  Are  you  a  connoisseur  in  pictures,  ]V[onsieur  ? ' 

He  had  reddened  already  under  her  pers{flage.  At 
this  he  grew  redder  still. 

'I  have  never  seen  any,  Mademoiselle/  he  said, 
almost  piteously ;  'except  once  a  little  exhibition  in 
Manchester.' 

'  Nor  sculpture  ? '  • 

'No,'  he  said  honestly;  'nor  sculpture.' 

Tt  seemed  to  him  he  was  being  held  under  a 
microscope,  so  keen  and  pitiless  were  her  laughing 
eyes.     But  she  left  him  no  time  to  resent  it. 

'So  you  are  a  blank  page.  Monsieur — virgin  soil — 
and  you  confess  it.  You  interest  me  extremely.  1 
should  even  like  to  teach  you  a  little.  I  am  the  most 
ignorant  person  in  the  world.  I  know  nothing  about 
artists  in  books.  Main  je  suis  artiste,  moi!  Jille  cV artiste. 
I  could  tell  you  tales ' 

She  threw  her  graceful  head  back  against  the 
cushion  behind  her,  and  smiled  again  broadly,  as 
though  her  sense  of  humour  were  irresistibly  tickled 
by  the  situation. 

Then  a  whim  seized  her,  and  she  sat  up,  grave  and 
eager. 


444  I'ln-:    HISTORY   OF   DAVID  GRIEVE      book  hi 

'I  have  drawn  since  I  was  eight  years  ohl,'  she 
said ;  '  Avould  you  like  to  hear  about  it  ?  It  is  not 
romantic — not  the  least  in  the  world — but  it  is  true.' 

And  with  what  seemed  to  his  foreign  ear  a  mar- 
vellous swiftness  and  fertility  of  phrase,  she  poured 
out  her  story.  After  her  mother  died  she  had  been 
sent  at  eight  years  old  to  board  at  a  farm  near  Rouen 
by  her  father,  Avho  seemed  to  have  regarded  his 
daughter  now  as  plaything  and  model,  now  as  an  in- 
tolerable drag  on  the  freedom  of  a  vicious  career. 
And  at  the  farm  the  child's  gift  declared  itself.  She 
began  with  copying  the  illustratious,  the  saints  and 
holy  families  in  a  breviary  belonging  to  one  of  the 
farm  servants ;  she  went  on  to  draw  the  lambs,  the 
carts,  the  horses,  the  farm  buildings,  on  any  piece  of 
white  wood  she  could  find  littered  about  the  yard,  or 
any  bit  of  paper  saved  from  a  parcel,  till  at  last  the 
old  cure  took  pity  upon  her  and  gave  her  some  chalks 
and  a  drawing-book.  At  fourteen  her  father,  for  a 
caprice,  reclaimed  hei^  and  she  found  herself  alone 
with  him  in  Paris.  To  judge  from  the  hints  she  threw 
out,  her  life  during  the  next  few  years  had  been  of  the 
roughest  and  wildest,  protected  only  by  her  indomi- 
table resolve  to  learn,  to  make  herself  an  artist,  come 
what  would.  '  I  meant  to  be  famous,  and  I  mean  it 
still ! '  she  said,  with  a  passionate  emphasis  which 
made  David  open  his  eyes.  Her  father  refused  to  be- 
lieve in  her  gift,  and  Avas  far  too  self-indulgent  and 
brutal  to  teach  her.  But  some  of  his  artist  friends 
were  kind  to  her,  and  taught  her  intermittently ;  by 
the  help  of  some  of  them  she  got  permission,  although 
under  age,  to  copy  in  the  Louvre,  and  with  hardly  any 
technical  knowledge  worked  there  feverishly  from  morn- 
ing to  night ;  and  at  last  Taranne — the  great  Taranne, 
from  whose  atelier  so  many  considerable  artists  had 
gone  out  to  the  conquest  of  the  public — Taranne  had 


CHA1-,     II 


STOmr    AND  STRESS  445 


seen  some  of  her  drawings,  heard  her  story,  and  gen- 
erously taken  lier  as  a  puj)!!. 

Then  enmlation  took  hold  of  her— the  fierce  desire 
to  be  first  in  all  the  conii)etitions  of  the  atelier.  David 
had  the  greatest  ditncultv  in  following  her  rapid  speech, 
with  its  slang,  its  technical  idioms,  its  extravagance  and 
variety  ;  bnt  he  made  out  that  she  had  been  for  a  long 
time  deficient  in  sound  training,  and  that  her  rivals  at 
the  atelier  had  again  and  again  beaten  her  easily  in 
spite  of  her  gift,  because  of  her  weakness  in  the  gram- 
mar of  her  art. 

'And  whenever  they  beat  me  I  could  have  killed 
my  conquerors  ;  and  Avhenever  1  beat  them,  1  despised 
my  judges  and  wanted  to  give  the  prize  away.  It  is 
not  my  fault.  Je  svisfaite  comme  ca — voih\  I  I  am  as 
vain  as  a  peacock ;  yet  when  people  admire  anything 
I  do,  I  think  them  fools— /bo/s .'  1  am  jealous  and  proud 
and  absurd— so  they  all  say  ;  yet  a  word,  a  look  from  a 
real  artist— from  one  of  the  great  men  who  knorc — can 
break  me,  make  me  cry.  Demelez  <;a,  Monsieur,  si  vous 
ponvez ! ' 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath.  Their  eyes  were  on  each 
other.  The  fascination,  the  absorption  expressed  in  the 
Englishman's  look  startled  her.  She  hurriedly  turned 
away,  took  up  her  cigarette  again,  and  nestled  into  the 
cushion.  He  vainly  tried  to  clothe  some  of  the  quick 
comments  running  through  his  mind  in  adequate  French, 
could  find  nothing  but  the  most  commonplace  phrases, 
stammered  out  a  few,  and  then  blushed  afresh.  In  her 
pity  for  him  she  took  up  her  story  again. 

After  her  father's  sudden  death,  the  shelter,  such  as 
it  was,  of  his  name  and  companionship  was  withdrawn. 
What  was  she  to  do  ?  It  turned  out  that  she  possessed 
a  small  rente  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and 
which  her  father  had  never  been  able  to  squander. 
Two  relations  from  her  mother's  country  near  Bordeaux 


446  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE     book  hi 

tunii'd  up  to  claim  her,  a  country  doctor  and  his  sister 
— middle-aged,  devout — to  her  wild  eyes  at  least,  alto- 
gether forbidding. 

They  made  too  much  of  their  self-sacrifice  in  taking 
me  to  live  with  them,'  she  said  with  her  little  ringing- 
laugh.  '  I  said  to  them — "  My  good  uncle  and  aunt, 
it  is  too  much — no  one  could  have  the  right  to  lay  such 
a  burden  upon  you.  Go  home  and  forget  me.  I  am 
incorrigible.  I  am  an  artist.  1  mean  to  live  by  myself, 
and  work  for  myself,  I  am  sure  to  go  to  the  bad — good 
morning."  Tliey  went  home  and  told  the  rest  of  my 
mother's  people  that  I  was  insane.  But  they  could  not 
keep  my  money  from  me.  It  is  just  enough  for  me. 
Besides,  1  shall  be  selling  soon, — certainly  I  shall  be 
selling!  I  have  had  two  or  three  inquiries  already 
about  one  of  the  exhibits  in  the  Salon.  Now  then — 
talk,  Monsieur  David  ! '  and  she  emphasised  the  words 
by  a  little  frown  ;   '  it  is  your  turn.' 

And  gradually  by  skill  and  patience  she  made  him 
talk,  made  him  give  her  back  some  of  her  confidences. 
It  seemed  to  amuse  her  greatly  that  he  should  be  a 
bookseller.  She  knew  no  booksellers  in  Paris ;  she 
could  assure  him  they  were  all  pure  bourgeois,  and 
there  was  not  one  of  them  that  could  be  likened  to 
Donatello's  David.  Manchester  she  had  scarcely  heard 
of;  she  shook  her  fair  head  over  it.  But  when  he 
told  her  of  his  French  reading,  when  he  waxed  elo- 
quent about  Rousseau  and  George  Sand,  then  her  mirth 
became  uncontrollable. 

'You  came  to  France  to  talk  of  Rousseau  and 
George  Sand  ? '  she  asked  him  with  dancing  eyes — 
'  Mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu !  what  do  you  take  us  for  ? ' 

This  time  his  vanity  was  hurt.  He  asked  her  to 
tell  him  what  she  meant — why  she  laughed  at  him. 

'  I  will  do  better  than  that,'  she  said ;  '  I  will  get 
some  friend  of  mine  to  take  you  to-morrow  to  "Les 
Trois  Rats."  ' 


CHAP.  II  STORM    AND   STRESS  447 

'What  is  "Les  Trois  Rats?"'  W  askp.1,  lialf 
"wounded  and  liulf  niystilied. 

'''Les  Trois  Kats,"  ]\[onsieur,  is  an  artist's  cafe. 
It  is  famous,  it  is  characteristic  ;  if  you  are  in  searcli 
of  local  colour  you  must  certainly  go  tliere.  When 
you  come  back  you  will  have  some  fresh  ideas,  1 
promise  you.' 

He  asked  if  ladies  also  went  there. 

'  Some  do ;  1  don't,  Conventions  mean  nothing  to 
me,  as  you  perceive,  or  1  should  have  a  companion 
here  to  play  proj)riety.  lint  like  j-ou,  perhaps,  I  am 
Romantic.  I  believe  in  the  grand  style.  T  have  ideas 
as  to  how  men  should  treat  me.  I  can  read  Octave 
Feuillet.  1  have  a  terrible  weakness  for  those  cava- 
liers of  his.  And  garbage  makes  me  ill.  So  I  avoid 
the  "  Trois  Rats."  ' 

She  fell  silent,  resting  her  little  chin  on  her  hand. 
Then  with  a  sudden  sly  smile  she  bent  forward  and 
looked  him  in  the  eyes. 

'Are  you  pious.  Monsieur,  like  all  the  English? 
There  is  some  religion  left  in  your  country,  isn't 
there  ? ' 

'Yes,  certainly,'  he  admitted,  'there  was  a  good 
deal.' 

Then,  hesitating,  he  described  his  own  early  reading 
of  Voltaire,  watching  its  effect  upon  her,  afraid  lest 
here  too  he  should  say  something  fatuous,  behind  the 
time,  as  he  seemed  to  have  been  doing  all  through. 

'Voltaire!' — she  shrugged  her  little  shoulders — 
'  Voltaire  to  me  is  just  an  old  perruque — a  jDrating 
philanthropical  person  who  talked  about  le  boa  Dieu, 
and  wrote  just  what  every  hourcjeois  can  understand. 
If  he  had  had  his  will  and  swept  away  the  clergy  and 
the  Church,  how  many  fine  subjects  we  artists  should 
have  lost ! ' 

He  sat  helplessly  staring  at  her.     She  enjoyed  his 


448  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE     book  in 

perplexity  a  laiiiute ;  then  she  returned  to  the 
charge. 

'Well,  my  credo  is  very  short.  Its  first  article  is 
art — and  its  second  is  art — and  its  third  is  art ! ' 

Her  words  excited  her.  The  delicate  colour  flushed 
into  her  cheek.  She  flung  her  head  back  and  looked 
straight  before  her  with  half-shut  eves. 

'  Yes — I  believe  in  art — and  expression — and  coloxir 
— and  le  vrai.  Velazcpiez  is  my  God,  and — and  he  has 
too  many  prophets  to  mention !  I  was  devout  once 
for  three  months — since  then  I  have  never  had  as  much 
faith  of  the  Church  sort  as  would  lie  on  a  ten-sous 
piece.  But ' — with  a  sudden  whimsical  change  of  voice 
— '  I  am  as  credulous  as  a  Breton  fisherman,  and  as 
superstitious  as  a  gipsy  !  Wait  and  see.  Will  you 
look  at  my  pictures  ?  ' 

She  sprang  up  and  showed  her  sketches.  She  had 
been  a  winter  in  Algiers,  and  had  there  and  in  Spain 
taken  a  passion  for  the  East,  for  its  colour,  its  mj^s- 
tery,  its  suggestions  of  cruelty  and  passion.  She  chat- 
tered away,  explaining,  laughing,  haranguing,  and 
David  followed  her  submissively  from  thing  to  thing, 
dumb  with  the  interest  and  curiosity  of  this  new  world 
and  language  of  the  artist. 

Louie  meanwhile,  who,  after  the  refreshment  of 
suppei',  had  been  forgetting  both  her  fatigue  and  the 
other  two  in  the  entertainment  provided  her  by  the 
shoes  and  the  Oriental  dresses,  had  now  found  a  little 
inlaid  coffer  on  a  distant  table,  full  of  Algerian  trink- 
ets, and  was  examining  them.  Suddenly  a  loud  crash 
was  heard  from  her  neighbourhood. 

Elise  Delaunay  stood  still.  Her  quick  speech  died 
on  her  lips.  She  made  one  bound  forward  to  Louie  ; 
then,  with  a  cry,  she  turned  deathly  pale,  tottered,  and 
would  have  fallen,  but  that  David  ran  to  her. 

'  The   glass  is  broken/  she  said,  or  rather  gasped  ; 


cHAi-.  It  STOKM    AND   STRESS  449 

'  slie  has  broken  it — that  ohl  Venetian  glass  of  Maman's. 
Oil !  my  pictures  ! — my  pictures  I  How  can  I  undo  it  ? 
Je  suis  penlue!  Oh  go! — go! — go — both  of  you  I 
Leave  me  alone  1     Why  did  T  ever  see  you  ?  ' 

She  was  beside  herself  with  rage  and  terror.  Slie 
laid  hold  of  Louie,  who  stood  in  sullen  awkwardness 
and  dismay,  and  pushed  hei-  to  the  door  so  suddenly 
and  so  violently  that  the  stronger,  taller  girl  yielded 
without  an  attem])t  at  resistance.  Then  holding  the 
door  open,  she  beckoned  imperiously  to  David,  while 
the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

'Adieu,  Monsieur — say  nothing — there  is  nothing  to 
be  said — go  I ' 

He  went  out  bewildered,  and  the  two  in  their 
amazement  walked  meehanieally  to  their  own  door. 

'  She  is  mad ! '  said  Louie,  her  eyes  blazing,  when 
they  paused  and  looked  at  each  other.  '  She  must  be 
mad.     AVhat  did  she  say  ? ' 

'  What  happened  ?'  was  all  he  could  reply. 

'  1  threw  down  that  old  glass — it  wasn't  my  fault — 
T  didn't  see  it.  It  was  standing  on  the  floor  against 
a  chair.  I  moved  the  chair  back  just  a  trifle,  and  it 
fell.  A  shabby  old  thing — I  could  have  paid  for 
another  easily.  Well,  I'm  not  going  there  again  to 
be  treated  like  that.' 

The  girl  was  furious.  All  that  chafed  sense  of 
exclusion  and  slighted  importance  which  had  grown 
u})OU  her  during  David's  U'te-d.-tPte  with  their  strange 
hostess  came  to  violent  expression  in  her  resentment. 
She  opened  the  door  of  their  room,  saying  that  what- 
ever he  might  do  she  was  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep 
somewhere,  if  it  was  on  the  floor. 

David  made  a  melancholy  light  in  the  squalid  room, 
and  Louie  went  about  her  preparations  in  angry  si- 
lence. When  she  had  withdrawn  into  the  little  cup- 
board-room, saying  carelessly  that   she    supposed   he 

VOL.  I  2  G 


450  THE   HISTORY   OF   DAVID   GRIEVE      book  hi 

could  manage  with  one  of  the  bags  aud  his  great 
coat,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bare  iron  bed- 
stead, and  recognised  with  a  start  that  he  was  quiver- 
ing all  over — with  fatigue,  or  excitement  ?  His  chief 
feeling  perha})s  was  one  of  utter  discomfiture,  flatness, 
and  humiliation. 

He  had  sat  there  in  the  dark  without  moving  for 
some  minutes,  when  his  ear  caught  a  low  uncertain 
tapping  at  the  door.  His  heart  leapt.  He  sprang  up 
and  turned  the  key  in  an  instant. 

There  on  the  landing  stood  Elise  Delaunay,  her 
arms  filled  with  what  looked  like  a  black  bearskin 
rug,  her  small  tremulous  face  and  tear-wet  eyes  raised 
to  his. 

'  Pardon,  Monsieur,'  she  said  hurriedly.  'I  told  you 
I  was  superstitious — well,  now  you  see.  Will  you 
take  this  rug  ? — one  can  sleep  anywhere  with  it 
though  it  is  so  old.  And  has  your  sister  what  she 
wants  ?  Can  I  do  anything  for  her  ?  Xo  !  Alors — 
I  must  talk  to  you  about  her  in  the  morning.  I  have 
some  more  things  in  my  head  to  say.  Pardon! — et 
honsoir.' 

She  pushed  the  rug  into  his  hands.  He  was  so 
moved  that  he  let  it  drop  on  the  floor  unheeding,  and 
as  she  looked  at  him,  half  audacious,  half  afraid,  she 
saw  a  painful  struggle,  as  of  some  strange  new  birth, 
pass  across  his  dark  young  face.  They  stood  so  a 
moment,  looking  at  each  other.  Then  he  made  a 
quick  step  forward  with  some  inarticulate  words.  In 
an  instant  she  was  halfway  along  the  corridor,  and, 
turning  back  so  that  her  fair  hair  and  smiling  eyes 
caught  the  light  she  held,  she  said  to  him  with  the 
queenliest  gesture  of  dismissal : 

^  Axi,  revoir,  Monsieur  David,  sleep  well.' 


LHAF.  Ill  STORM   AND   STRESS  4ol 


CHAPTER   III 

David  woke  early  t'lum  a  restless  sleep.  He  sprang 
up  and  dressed.  Never  had  the  IVEay  sun  shone  so 
brightly  ;    never  had  life  looked  more  alluring. 

In  the  first  place  he  took  care  to  profit  by  the  hints 
of  the  night  before.  He  ran  down  to  make  friends 
with  ^Madame  ]NIerichat — a  process  which  was  accom- 
plished without  much  difficulty,  as  soon  as  a  franc  or 
two  had  passed,  and  arrangements  had  been  made  for 
the  passing  of  a  few  more.  She  was  to  take  charge 
of  the  apparteriient,  and  provide  them  with  their  morn- 
ing coffee  and  bread.  And  upon  this  her  grim  coun- 
tenace  cleared.  She  condescended  to  spend  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  gossiping  with  the  Englishman,  and  she 
promised  to  stand  as  a  buffer  between  him  and  Dubois' 
irate  landlord. 

'  A  job  of  work  at  Brussels,  you  say,  Monsieur  ? 
Bien;  T  will  tell  the  proprietaire.  He  won't  believe 
it — ^Monsieur  Dubois  tells  too  many  lies  ;  but  perhaps 
it  will  keep  him  quiet.  He  will  think  of  the  return — 
of  the  money  in  the  pocket.  He  will  bid  me  inform 
him  the  very  moment  ]\ronsieur  Dubois  shows  his  nose, 
that  he  may  descend  upon  him,  and  so  you  will  be  let 
alone.' 

He  mounted  the  stairs  again,  and  stood  a  moment 
looking  along  the  passage  with  a  quickening  pulse. 
There  was  a  sound  of  low  singing,  as  of  one  crooning 
over  some  occupation.  It  must  be  she  !  Then  she  had 
recovered  her  trouble  of  the  night  before — her  strange 
trouble.  Yet  he  dimly  remembered  that  in  the  farm- 
houses of  the  Peak  also  the  breaking  of  a  looking-glass 
had  been  held  to  be  unlucky.     And,  of  course,  in  inter- 


452  TTTE   TTTSTORY  OF  PAVID   GRTF.VE      book  hi 

preting  the  omen  she  liad  thought  of  her  pictures  and 
the  jury. 

How  couhl  he  see  her  again  ?  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  him  that  she  had  spoken  of  taking  a  holiday  since 
the  Salon  opened.  A  lioliday  which  for  her  meant 
'  copying  in  the  Louvre.'  And  Avhere  else,  pray,  does 
the  tourist  naturally  go  on  the  first  morning  of  a  visit 
to  Paris  ? 

The  young  fellow  went  back  into  his  room  with  a 
radiant  face,  and  spent  some  luinutes,  as  Louie  had 
not  yet  appeared,  in  elaborating  his  toilette.  The 
small  cracked  glass  above  the  mantelpiece  was  not 
flattering,  and  David  was  almost  for  the  first  time 
anxious  about  and  attentive  to  what  he  saw  there. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  he  was  pleased  with  his  short  serge 
coat  and  his  new  tie.  He  thought  they  gave  him 
something  of  a  student  air,  and  would  not  disgrace 
even  her  should  she  deign  to  be  seen  in  his  company. 
As  he  laid  his  brush  down  he  looked  at  his  own 
brown  hand,  and  remembered  hers  with  a  kind  of 
wonder — so  small  and  Avhite,  the  wrist  so  delicately 
rounded. 

)Yhen  Louie  emerged  she  was  not  in  a  good  temper. 
She  declared  that  she  had  hardly  slept  a  wink ;  that 
the  bed  was  not  fit  to  sleep  on ;  that  the  cupboard 
was  alive  with  mice,  and  smelt  intolerably.  David 
first  endeavoured  to  appease  her  with  the  coffee  and 
rolls  which  had  just  arrived,  and  then  he  broached 
the  plan  of  sending  her  to  board  with  the  Cervins, 
which  Mademoiselle  Delaunay  had  suggested.  What 
did  she  think  ?  It  would  cost  more,  perhaps,  but  he 
could  afford  it.  On  their  way  out  he  would  deliver 
the  two  notes  of  introduction,  and  no  doubt  they 
could  settle  it  directly  if  she  liked. 

Louie  yawned,  put  up  objections,  and  refused  to  see 
anything  in  a  promising  light.     Paris  was  horrid,  and 


rnvr.  ni  SlOinf    AX1>    STHKSS  453 

the  mail  who  had  let  theni  the  rooms  ought  to  be  *  had 
up.'  As  for  people  who  coukln't  talk  any  English  she 
hated  the  sight  of  them. 

The  remark  from  an  Englishwoman  in  France  had 
its  humour.  But  David  did  not  see  that  point  of  it. 
He  flushed  hotly  and  with  difftculty  held  an  angry 
tongue.  However,  he  was  possessed  with  an  inward 
dread — the  dread  of  the  idealist  Avho  sees  his  pleasure 
as  a  beautiful  whole — lest  tliey  should  so  quarrel  as  to 
spoil  the  visit  and  the  new  experience.  Under  this 
curb  he  controlled  himself,  and  presently,  with  more 
savoir  vivre  than  he  was  conscious  of,  proposed  that 
they  should  go  out  and  see  the  shops. 

Louie,  at  the  mere  mention  of  shops,  passed  into 
another  mood.  After  she  had  spent  some  time  on 
dressing  they  sallied  forth,  David  delivering  his  notes 
on  the  way  down.  Both  noticed  that  the  house  was 
squalid  and  ill-kept,  but  apparently  full  of  inhabitants. 
David  surmised  that  they  were  for  the  most  part 
struggling  persons  of  small  means  and  extremely 
various  occupations.  There  were  three  ateliers  in  the 
building,  the  two  on  their  own  top  floor,  and  ]\I.  Mont- 
joie's,  which  was  apparently  built  out  at  the  back  on 
the  ground  floor.  The  first  floor  was  occupied  by  a 
dressmaker,  the  proprietaire' s  best  tenant,  according  to 
>radame  ]\Ierichat.  Above  her  was  a  clerk  in  the 
^Ministry  of  the  Interior,  with  his  wife  and  two  or 
three  children;  above  them  again  the  Cervins,  and  a 
couple  of  commercial  travellers,  and  so  on. 

The  street  outside,  in  its  general  aspect,  suggested 
the  same  small,  hard-pressed  professional  life.  It  was 
narrow  and  dull ;  it  mounted  abruptly  towards  the 
hill  of  Moutmartre,  with  its  fort  and  cemetery,  and, 
but  for  the  height  of  the  houses,  which  is  in  itself  a 
dignified  architectural  feature,  would  have  been  no 
more  inspiriting  than  a  street  in  London. 


454  Tin-:    IIISTOUV   OF    I).\\'in   GKn':VK      book   III 

A  few  steps,  however,  brought  thein  on  to  the  Boule- 
vard Montmartre,  ancl  then,  taking  the  Eue  Lafitte, 
they  emerged  upon  tlie  IJoulevard  des  Ttaliens. 

Louie  looked  round  her,  to  this  side  and  that,  paused 
for  a  moment,  bewildered  as  it  were  by  tlie  general 
movement  and  gaiety  of  the  scene.  Then  a  lingerie 
sho})  caught  her  eye,  and  she  made  for  it.  Soon  the 
last  cloud  had  cleared  from  the  girl's  brow.  She  gave 
herself  with  ecstasy  to  the  shops,  to  the  people. 
What  jewellery,  what  dresses,  what  delicate  cobwebs 
of  lace  and  ribbon,  what  miracles  of  colour  in  the 
florists'  windows,  what  suggestions  of  wealth  and 
lavishness  everywhere  !  Here  in  this  world  of  costly 
contrivance,  of  an  eager  and  inventive  luxury,  Louise 
Suveret's  daughter  felt  herself  at  last  at  home.  She 
had  never  set  foot  in  it  before ;  yet  already  it  was 
familiar,  and  she  was  part  of  it. 

Yes,  she  was  as  well  dressed  as  anybody,  she  con- 
cluded, except  perhaps  the  ladies  in  the  closed  car- 
riages whose  dress  could  only  be  guessed  at.  As  for 
good  looks,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much  of  them  in 
Taris.  She  called  the  Frenchwomen  downright  plain. 
Tliey  knew  how  to  put  on  their  clothes ;  there  was 
style  about  them,  she  did  not  deny  that ;  but  she  was 
prepared  to  maintain  that  there  was  hardly  a  decent 
face  among  them. 

Such  air,  and  such  a  sky  !  The  trees  were  rushing 
into  leaf;  summer  dresses  were  to  be  seen  every- 
where; the  shops  had  swung  out  their  aw^nings,  and 
the  day  promised  a  summer  heat  still  tempered  by  a 
fresh  spring  breeze.  For  a  time  David  was  content 
to  lounge  along,  stopping  when  his  companion  did, 
lost  as  she  was  in  the  enchantment  and  novelty  of  the 
scene,  drinking  in  Paris  as  it  were  at  great  gulps,  say- 
ing to  himself  they  would  be  at  the  Opera  directly, 
then  the  Thedtre-Fran9ais,  the  Louvre,  the  Tuileries, 


CHAT.  Ill  STOK.M    AM)    SIKKSS  405 

the  Place  de  la  Concorde  I  Every  lj(jok  that  liad  ever 
passed  thrnu<,di  his  hands  contauiin;^'  illustrations  and 
descriptions  of  Paris  he  had  read  w  ith  avidity,  lie, 
too,  like  Louie,  though  in  a  different  way,  was  at 
home  in  these  streets,  and  hardly  needed  a  look  at  the 
map  he  carried  to  find  his  way.  Presently,  when  he 
could  cscai)o  from  Louie,  ho  would  go  and  explore  to 
his  heart's  content,  see  all  that  the  tourist  sees,  and 
then  penetrate  further,  and  judge  for  himself  as  to 
those  sweeping  and  iconoclastic  changes  which,  for  its 
own  tyrant's  purposes,  the  Empire  had  been  making 
in  tlie  older  city.  As  he  thought  of  the  Emi)eror  and 
the  government  his  gorge  rose  within  him.  I>arbier"s 
talk  had  insensibly  determined  all  his  ideas  of  the 
imperial  regime.  How  much  longer  would  France 
suffer  the  villainous  gang  who  ruled  her  ?  He  began 
an  inward  declamation  in  the  manner  of  Hugo,  excit- 
ing himself  as  he  walked — while  all  the  time  it  was 
the  spring  of  1870  which  was  swelling  and  expanding 
in  the  veins  and  branches  of  the  i)lane  trees  above 
him — ]\ray  was  hurrying  on,  and  Worth  lay  three 
short  months  ahead  I 

Then  suddenly  into  the  midst  of  his  political  mus- 
ings and  his  traveller's  ardour  the  mind  thrust  for- 
ward a  disturbing  image — the  tigure  of  a  little  fair- 
haired  artist.  He  looked  round  impatiently.  Louie's 
loiterings  began  to  chafe  him. 

'  Come  along,  do,'  he  called  to  her,  waking  up  to  the 
time  ;  '  we  shall  never  get  there.' 

'  Where  ? '  she  demanded. 

'  Wh}',  to  the  Louvre.' 

'  What's  there  to  see  there  ?  ' 

*  It's  a  great  palace.  The  Kings  of  France  used  to 
live  there  once.  Now  they've  put  pictures  and  statues 
into  it.  You  must  see  it,  Louie — everybody  does. 
Come  along.' 


456  THE   HISTORY  OF   DAVID   GEIEVE      book  hi 

•  rU  not  hurry/  she  said  perversely.  '  I  don't  care 
that  about  silly  old  pictures.' 

And  she  went  back  to  her  shop-gazing.  David  felt 
for  a  moment  precisely  as  he  had  been  used  to  feel  in 
the  old  days  on  the  Sco\it,  when  he  had  tried  to  civi- 
lise her  on  the  question  of  books.  And  now  as  then 
he  had  to  wrestle  with  her,  using  the  kind  of  argu- 
ments he  felt  might  have  a  chance  Avith  her.  At  last 
she  sulkily  gave  way,  and  let  him  lead  on  at  a  quick 
pace.  In  the  Rue  Saint-Honore,  indeed,  she  was  once 
more  almost  unmanageable ;  but  at  last  they  were 
safely  on  the  stairs  of  the  Louvre,  and  David's  brow 
smoothed,  his  eye  shone  again.  He  mounted  the  in- 
terminable steps  with  such  gaiety  and  eagerness  that 
Louie's  attention  was  drawn  to  him. 

'Whatever  do  you  go  that  pace  for?'  she  said 
crossly.  'It's  enough  to  kill  anybody  going  up  this 
kind  of  thing  ! ' 

'  It  isn't  as  bad  as  the  Downfall,'  said  David,  laugh- 
ing, '  and  I've  seen  you  get  up  that  fast  enough. 
Come,  catch  hold  of  my  umbrella  and  I'll  drag  you 
up.' 

Louie  reached  the  top,  out  of  breath,  turned  into 
the  first  room  to  the  right,  and  looked  scornfully  round 
her. 

'  Well  I  never ! '  she  ejaculated.  '  What's  the  good 
of  this?' 

Meanwhile  David  shot  on  ahead,  beckoning  to  her 
to  follow.  She,  however,  would  take  her  own  pace, 
and  walked  sulkily  along,  looking  at  the  people  who 
were  not  numerous  enough  to  please  her,  and  only 
regaining  a  certain  degree  of  serenity  when  she  per- 
ceived that  here  as  elsewhere  people  turned  to  stare 
after  her. 

David  meanwhile  threw  wondering  glances  at  the 
great  Veronese,  at  Raphael's  archangel,  at  the  tower- 


CHAP,  in  STORM   AND   STRESS  457 

ing  Vandyke,  at  the  '  Virgin  of  the  Rocks.'  But  he 
passed  them  by  quickly.  Was  she  here  ?  Could  he 
find  her  in  this  wilderness  of  rooms  ?  His  spirits 
wavered  between  delicious  expectancy  and  the  fear  of 
disappointment.  The  gallery  seemed  to  him  full  of 
copyists  young  and  old  :  beardless  ropina  laughing  and 
chatting  with  fresh  maidens ;  old  men  sitting  crouched 
on  high  seats  with  vast  canvases  before  them ;  or 
women,  middle-aged  and  plain,  with  knitted  shawls 
round  their  shoulders,  at  work  upon  the  radiant 
Greuzes  and  Laucrets  ;  but  that  pale  golden  head — 
nowhere ! 

At  last ! 

He  hurried  forward,  and  there,  in  front  of  a  Vel- 
azquez, he  found  her,  in  the  company  of  two  young 
men.  who  were  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair 
criticising  the  picture  on  her  easel. 

'  Ah,  Monsieur  David  ! ' 

She  took  up  the  brush  she  held  with  her  teeth  for  a 
moment,  and  carelessly  held  him  out  two  fingers  of 
her  right  hand. 

'Monsieur — make  a  diversion — tell  the  truth — these 
gentlemen  here  have  been  making  a  fool  of  me.' 

And  throwing  herself  back  with  a  little  laughing, 
coquettish  gesture,  she  made  room  for  him  to  look. 

'Ah,  but  I  forgot;  let  me  present  you.  M.  Al- 
phonse,  this  is  an  Englishman ;  he  is  new  to  Paris, 
and  he  is  an  acquaintance  of  mine.  You  are  not  to 
play  any  joke  upon  him.  ]\r.  Lenain,  this  gentleman 
wishes  to  be  made  acquainted  with  art;  you  will 
undertake  his  education — you  will  take  him  to-night 
to  ''Les  Trois  Eats."     I  promised  for  you.' 

She  threw  a  merry  look  at  the  elder  of  her  two 
attendants,  who  ceremoniously  took  oft"  his  hat  to 
David  and  made  a  polite  speech,  in  which  the  word 
enchant4  recurred.     He  was  a  dark  man,  with  a  short 


458.  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE     book  ui 

black  beard,  and  full  restless  eye ;  some  ten  years 
older  apparently  than  the  other,  who  was  a  dare-devil 
boy  of  twenty. 

' Allans !  tell  me  what  you  think  of  my  picture, 
M.  David.' 

The  three  waited  for  the  answer,  not  without  malice. 
David  looked  at  it  perplexed.  It  was  a  copy  of  the 
black  and  white  Infanta,  with  the  pink  rosettes,  which, 
like  everything  else  that  France  possesses  from  the 
hand  of  Velazquez,  is  to  the  French  artist  of  to-day 
among  the  sacred  things,  the  flags  and  battle-cries  of 
his  art.  Its  strangeness,  its  unlikeness  to  anything  of 
the  picture  kind  that  his  untrained  provincial  eyes 
had  ever  lit  upon,  tied  his  tongue.  Yet  he  struggled 
with  himself. 

'Mademoiselle,  I  cannot  explain — I  cannot  find  the 
words.  It  seems  to  me  ugly.  The  child  is  not  pretty 
nor  the  dress.     But ' 

He  stared  at  the  picture,  fascinated — unable  to 
express  himself,  and  blushing  under  the  shame  of  his 
incapacity. 

The  other  three  watched  him  curiously. 

'  Taranne  should  get  hold  of  him,'  the  elder  artist 
murmured  to  his  companion,  with  an  imperceptible 
nod  towards  the  Englishman.  '  The  models  lately 
have  been  too  common.  There  was  a  rebellion  yester- 
day in  the  atelier  de  femmes ;  one  and  all  declared  the 
model  was  not  worth  drawing,  and  one  and  all  left.' 

'  Minxes ! '  said  the  other  coolly,  a  twinkle  in  his 
wild  eye.  '  Taranne  will  have  to  put  his  foot  down. 
There  are  one  or  two  demons  among  them  ;  one  should 
make  them  know  their  place.' 

Lenain  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed — a  great, 
frank  laugh,  which  broke  up  the  ordinary  discontent 
of  the  face  agreeably.  The  speaker,  M.  Alphonse  Du- 
chatel,  had  been  already  turned  out  of  two  ateliers  for 


CHAP.  Ill  STORM   AXD   STRESS  459 

a  series  of  the  most  atrocious  charges  on  record.  He 
was  now  with  Taranue,  on  trial,  the  authorities  keep- 
ing a  vigiUmt  eye  on  hivii. 

Meanwhile  Elise,  still  leaning  back  with  her  eyes 
on  her  picture,  was  talking  fast  to  David,  who  hung 
over  her,  absorbed.  She  was  explaining  to  him  some 
of  the  Infanta's  qualities,  pointing  to  this  and  that 
with  her  brush,  talking  a  bright,  untranslatable  artist's 
language  which  dazzled  him,  tilled  him  with  an  exciting 
medley  of  new  im})ressions  and  ideas,  while  all  the  time 
his  quick  sense  responded  with  a  delightful  warmth  and 
eagerness  to  the  personality  beside  him — child,  proph- 
etess, egotist,  all  in  one — noticing  each  characteristic 
detail,  the  drooping  melancholy  trick  of  the  eyes,  the 
nervous  delicacy  of  the  small  hand  holding  the  brush. 

'  David — David !  I'm  tired  of  this,  I  tell  you  !  I'm 
not  going  to  stay,  so  I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you. 
Good-bye ! ' 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  saw  Louie  standing  defiantly 
a  few  paces  behind  him. 

'What  do  you  want,  Louie?'  he  said  impatiently, 
going  up  to  her.  It  was  no  longer  the  same  man,  the 
same  voice, 

'  I  want  to  go.     1  hate  this  I ' 

'  I'm  not  ready,  and  you  can't  go  by  yourself.  Do 
you  see' — (in  an  undertone) — 'This  is  ^Mademoiselle 
Delaunay  ? ' 

'That  don't  matter,'  she  said  sulkily,  making  no 
movement.     '  If  you  ain't  going,  I  am.' 

By  this  time,  however,  Elise,  as  well  as  the  two 
astists,  had  perceived  Louie's  advent.  She  got  up  from 
her  seat  with  a  slight  sarcastic  smile,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

•  Bo II jour,  ]\Iademoiselle  !  You  forgave  me  for  dat 
I  did  last  night  ?  I  ask  your  pardon — oh,  de  tout  mon 
coeur!' 


460  THE   HISTOEY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  hi 

Even  Louie  perceived  that  the  tone  was  enigmatical. 
She  gave  an  inward  gulp  of  envy,  however,  excited  by 
the  cut  of  the  French  girl's  black  and  white  cotton. 
Then  she  dropped  Elise's  hand,  and  moved  away. 

'  Louie ! '  cried  David,  pursuing  her  in  despair ; 
'  now  just  wait  half  an  hour,  there's  a  good  girl,  while 
I  look  at  a  few  things,  and  then  afterwards  I'll  take 
you  to  the  street  where  all  the  best  shops  are,  and  you 
can  look  at  them  as  much  as  you  like.' 

Louie  stood  irresolute. 

'  What  is  it  ?  '  said  Elise  to  him  in  French.  '  Your 
sister  wants  to  go  ?     Why,  you  have  only  just  come  ! ' 

'  She  finds  it  dull  looking  at  pictures,'  said  David, 
with  an  angry  brow,  controlling  himself  with  difficulty. 
'  She  must  have  the  shops.' 

Elise  shrugged  her  shoulders  and,  turning  her  head, 
said  a  few  quick  words  that  David  did  not  follow  to 
the  two  men  behind  her.  They  all  laughed.  The 
artists,  however,  were  both  much  absorbed  in  Louie's 
appearance,  and  could  not  apparently  take  their  eyes 
off  her. 

'  Ah  ! '  said  Elise,  suddenly. 

She  had  recognised  some  one  at  a  distance,  to  whom 
she  nodded.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  the  Eng- 
lish girl,  laughed,  and  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

'  Monsieur  David,  here  are  ^Monsieur  and  Madame 
Cervin.  Have  you  thought  of  sending  your  sister  to 
them  ?  If  so,  I  will  present  you.  Why  not  ?  They 
would  amuse  her.  Madame  Cervin  would  take  her  to 
all  the  shops,  to  the  races,  to  the  Bois.     Que  sais-je  ? ' 

All  the  while  she  was  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
David's  face  cleared.  He  thought  he  saw  a  way  out 
of  this  mijmsse. 

'  Louie,  come  here  a  moment.  I  want  to  speak  to 
you.' 

And  he  carried  her  off  a  few  yards,  while  the  Cer- 


CHAP.  HI  STORM   AND    STRESS  461 

vius  came  up  and  greeted  the  group  round  the  Infanta. 
A  powerfully  built,  thickset  man  in  a  grey  suit,  who 
had  been  walking  with  them,  fell  back  as  they  joined 
Elise  Delaunay,  and  began  to  examine  a  Pieter  de 
Hooghe  with  minuteness. 

Meanwhile  David  wrestled  with  his  sister.  She 
had  much  better  let  Mademoiselle  Delaunay  arrange 
Avith  these  people.  Then  jNIadame  Cervin  could  take 
her  about  wherever  she  wanted  to  go.  He  would 
make  a  bargain  to  that  effect.  As  for  him,  he  must 
and  would  see  Paris — pictures,  churches,  public  build- 
ings. If  the  Louvre  bored  her,  everything  would  bore 
her,  and  it  was  impossible  either  that  he  should  spend 
his  time  at  her  apron-string,  flattening  his  nose  against 
the  shop-windows,  or  that  she  should  go  about  alone. 
He  was  not  going  to  have  her  taken  for  '  a  bad  lot,' 
and  treated  accordingly,  he  told  her  frankly,  with  an 
imperious  tightening  of  all  his  young  frame.  He  had 
discovered  some  time  since  that  it  was  necessary  to 
be  plain  with  Louie. 

She  hated  to  be  disposed  of  on  any  occasion,  except 
by  her  own  will  and  initiative,  and  she  still  made  dif- 
liculties  for  the  sake  of  making  them,  till  he  grew 
desperate.  Then,  when  she  had  pushed  his  patience 
to  the  very  last  point,  she  gave  way. 

*  You  tell  her  she's  to  do  as  I  want  her,'  she  said, 
threateningly.  '  I  won't  stay  if  she  doesn't.  And  P'll 
not  have  her  paid  too  much.' 

David  led  her  back  to  the  rest. 

'  ]\ry  sister  consents.  Arrange  it  if  you  can.  Made- 
moiselle,' he  said  imploringly  to  Elise. 

A  series  of  quick  and  somewhat  noisy  colloquies 
followed,  watched  with  disapproval  by  the  garcUen 
near,  who  seemed  to  be  once  or  twice  on  the  point  of 
interfering. 

Mademoiselle    Delaunay    opened     the     nuitter    to 


403  THE   HISTORY  OF  DAVID   GRIEVE      book  hi 

Madam  Cervin,  a  short,  stout  woman,  with  no  neck, 
and  a  keen,  small  eye.  Money  was  her  daily  and 
hourly  preoccupation,  and  she  could  have  kissed  the 
hem  of  Elise  Delaunay's  dress  in  gratitude  for  these 
few  francs  thus  placed  in  her  way.  It  was  some  time 
now  since  she  had  lost  her  last  boarder,  and  had  not 
been  able  to  obtain  another.  She  took  David  aside, 
and,  while  her  look  sparkled  with  covetousness,  ex- 
plained to  him  volubly  all  that  she  would  do  for  Louie, 
and  for  how  much.  And  she  could  talk  some  English 
too — certainly  she  could.  Her  education  had  been 
excellent,  she  was  thankful  to  say. 

'Mon  Dieu,  qit'elle  est  belle!'  she  wound  up.  'Ah, 
Monsieur,  you  do  very  right  to  entrust  your  sister  to 
me,  A  young  fellow  like  you — no  I — that  is  not  con- 
venable.  But  I — I  will  be  a  dragon.  Make  your  mind 
quite  easy.     With  me  all  Avill  go  well.' 

Louie  stood  in  an  impatient  silence  while  she  was 
being  thus  talked  over,  exchanging  looks  from  time  to 
time  with  the  two  artists,  who  had  retired  a  little 
behind  Mademoiselle  Delaunay's  easel,  and  from  that 
distance  were  perfectly  competent  to  let  the  bold- 
eyed  English  girl  know  what  they  thought  of  her 
chaxms. 

At  last  the  bargain  was  concluded,  and  the  Cervins 
walked  away  with  Louie  in  charge.  They  were  to 
take  Jier  to  a  restaurant,  then  show  her  the  Eue  Royale 
and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and,  finally — David  making  no 
demur  whatever  about  the  expense — there  was  to  be  an 
afternoon  excursion  through  the  Bois  to  Longchamps, 
where  some  of  the  May  races  Avere  being  run. 

As  they  receded,  the  man  in  grey,  before  the  Pieter 
de  Hooghe,  looked  up,  smiled,  dropped  liis  eyeglass, 
and  resumed  his  place  beside  Madame  Cervin.  She 
made  a  gesture  of  introduction,  and  he  bowed  across 
her  to  tlie  young  stranger. 


CHAP.  Ill  STOKM    AND   STRESS  463 

For  the  first  time  Elise  perceived  hiin.  A  look  of 
annoyance  and  disgust  crossed  her  face. 

'Do  you  see,' she  said,  turning  to  Lenain ;  'there 
is  that  animal,  Montjoie  ?  He  did  well  to  keep  his 
distance.     What  do  the  Cervins  want  with  him  ?  ' 

The  others  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

'  They  say  his  Msenad  would  be  magnificent  if  he 
could  keep  sober  enough  to  finish  her,'  said  Lenain  ; 
'  it  is  his  last  chance  ;  he  will  go  under  altogether  if 
he  fails ;  he  is  almost  done  for  already.' 

*And  what  a  gift!'  said  Alphonse,  in  a  lofty  tone 
of  critical  regret.  'He  should  have  been  a  second 
Barye.  Ah,  la  vie  Parisienne — la  maudite  vie  Pari- 
sienne ! ' 

Again  Lenain  exploded. 

'Come  and  lunch,  you  idiot,'  he  said,  taking  the 
lad's  arm  ;  '  for  whom  are  you  posing  ?  ' 

But  before  they  departed,  they  inquired  of  David 
in  the  politest  way  what  the}''  could  do  for  him.  He 
was  a  stranger  to  Mdlle.  Delaunay's  acquaintance ; 
they  were  at  his  service.  Should  they  take  him  some- 
where at  night  ?  David,  in  an  effusion  of  gratitude, 
suggested  '  Les  Trois  Rats.'  He  desired  greatly  to 
see  the  artist  world,  he  said.  Alphonse  grinned.  An 
appointment  was  made  for  eight  o'clock,  and  the  two 
friends  walked  off. 


END    OF    VOL.    I 


DATi^  niJF 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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I  Kill  Hill  I 


AA    000  628  314    7 


VM',){^P,f!TX„9FpA.,  RIVER. 


II 11  iiitriTiii  II 


^.^IPEUBRARY 


'*"  "I'lillM  II  Hllllll   II  IlllllillilllllllllllHIIIIII 

3  1210  01244  9789 


